Magnetism
by buildmeapyramid
Summary: "In freshman physics I was taught about magnetism. How it's created by opposite forces, positive and negative, working together and creating a spark. It feels like that with him, with Edward. A spark. A magnetism." AH Jakeward slash.
1. Partners

_Title: Magnetism_

_Author: buildmeapyramid_

_Fandom: Twilight Saga_

_Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes_

_Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella_

_Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me._

_A/N: I'm writing a Twific. Dear God, kill me now._

_Okay, so this fic is a completely new change of scenery for me, and I haven't read the books in years—I'm currently trying to hunt down my copy of __Eclipse__—so I'm going on memory here. Bear that in mind if and when you review, and know that I'll be keeping my middle finger ready for when one of you decides to sneer at my first Twific attempt._

_And since I can't find my copy of __Eclipse__, I'm just gonna say it's the beginning of March in Forks, so just go with it. Also, for convenience' sake, Jacob attends Forks High School instead of going to the rez._

_Even though I totally get the appeal of two extremely smexy vampire guys going at it like rabbits, and I'm already addicted to the Edward/Jasper slash fanfiction, I absolutely adore Edward and Jacob because there is just so much potential for a die-hard, throat-throttling, groin-gripping romance, which is why I'm writing this. So hold on to your belts, 'cause here we go!_

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><p>1. Partners<p>

There is nothing quite as satisfying on a rainy Tuesday morning as shoving a puny freshman against a wall of lockers, just 'cause you can. Of course, my self-pleased euphoria is completely and utterly ruined by the pair of disappointed, absurdly bright green eyes that meet mine from across the hall, framed by even more absurdly long dark lashes. I scowl and ignore my victim's sniffles and mutterings of abuse, and storm down the hall just to pass by the girl-snatcher and snarl in his ear, "Got a problem, Cullen?"

I stalk away, not waiting for a reply, knowing that if he answers in that soft, ever-so-sweet, I'll-pray-for-you-tonight voice, I will snap and give in to my long-held desire to rip his balls off and feed them to vultures—and oh, the pleasure it would give me. Only I can't, because standing right next to him, with her fingers entwined in his, is _her_. Bella Swan. The girl who knew exactly how much I wanted her but still left me and my nine inches for Cullen and his nonexistent balls. Honestly, Bella is quite possibly the most eager girl I've ever kissed, but that _could_ have been because she was slam drunk when I finally made my move, though I still considered it progress. She knows just as well as I do that Cullen is a church-going, hymn-singing, old-fashioned kind of guy who won't even think of going past first base until they're married—hell, he probably doesn't know what first base _is_—and yet she still goes flouncing around the school every day with her big brown eyes and lightning smile, kissing him on the cheek and reading him love poetry in English.

It's positively sickening.

But the worst part is I can't do a single fucking thing about it. Even if she rejects me and spits in my face and totals my Harley and breaks her hand again trying to punch me, I'll still chase after her because she's the only girl I've ever _felt _anything for—and I don't mean the let's-go-make-babies-on-my-Star-Wars-sheets feeling. I mean the feeling like when Tinkerbell starts spraying the fairy version of pepper spray in my eyes, and suddenly all I can see are glittering specks of gold and pixie dust and other shit that sparkles. Because when I look at her, I know she's not thinking about a quick fuck in the locker room or someone to sponge off of. She doesn't expect me to be nice to her all the time or put up with her treating me like shit on a bad day. She doesn't try and tell me that riding my Harley at eighty miles per hour on the freeway is dangerous, or that I should ease up on the smoking. She just . . . loves me.

The first time she said that, I felt like she was a human vacuum. It was like gravity was pulling me toward her, and since I was so totally incapable of speaking, I felt I owed her a reply in some form. So I tried to kiss her.

Which is how she broke her hand.

I would've been pretty damn proud of myself for possessing such a devastatingly resilient jaw, but it was _Bella_, and if she wasn't already pissed off at me for making a move, breaking her hand in the process of telling me to fuck off did the job quite nicely. I wouldn't be surprised if she chose Cullen just to get back at me. Of course, that wasn't her style; she would have preferred stringing my intestines up over the school's main entrance. But apparently Cullen had cured her of her violent tendencies, like he's finally caged the canary. And I loathe him for it.

Of course, that's not the only reason I loathe him. He grew up in a two-story house in the suburbs; I grew up in a shack on the rez and slept on an air mattress. He plays lacrosse and runs track; I beat up kids and roar around on my Harley. He's president of the celibacy club; I lost my virginity in seventh grade. His dad is an over-qualified doctor; mine deals drugs and booze to minors out of the back of his van. His mom volunteers at the local animal shelter; mine abandoned me and Dad for a barely-legal waiter at Olive Garden when I was five.

I wouldn't have minded such different backgrounds—really, I wouldn't—if he didn't wave it in my face every day. His virtuous, let's-all-be-best-friends persona truly drives me up the wall, and the effect it has on me causes me to act like I have a stick up my ass whenever I so much as hear his name. After all, he's the only person who doesn't cower in fear of me when I pass him in the hallway; instead he just gives me that usual gentle, deep-down-I-know-you're-a-good-person, damned annoying smile, and I give him my usual gentle, talk-to-me-and-I'll-deck-you glare. Unfortunately, it has absolutely no effect on him, which only makes me hate him more.

Hence my step quickens and my English teacher looks extremely alarmed when he sees me walk into class with my famed someone-is-going-to-die-today scowl. Several of my classmates look like they're about to pee as I stomp past them, practically hurtling my backpack against the two-person desk table in the back where I sit next to a quiet kid who I would actually get along with alright if he didn't have a constant cold. His habitual sneezes make it impossible to sleep through the lecture.

I look down at my phone, knowing there aren't any texts for me but checking anyway, and when I look up there they are _again_, sitting together at a table by the window. Bella has her hand on Cullen's shoulder, the other on his thigh, and is whispering something in his ear with a dirty little smile on her face that immediately ruffles my feathers; she used to smile at _me _like that, before the kiss, when we worked on cars and bikes in my dad's backyard, drinking Coke and eating cold pizza and joking around. We were best friends—until I went and fucked it up royally, that is.

My scowl deepens and when the teacher raises his voice to address the class, I glare at him like I'm trying to taser him merely with the power of my eyes. Unfortunately, my efforts are in vain, as I hear him saying loud and clear, "As you all know, for the next couple of weeks we will be focusing on a poetry project, the majority of which will be done at home." Over the noisy groans of the lazier ones in the class, he continues, "I'll write the instructions on the board; meanwhile, find your partners, guys."

I glare at the wheezing kid I sit next to—I think his name's Tyson—who has already abandoned ship, so to speak, to grab some scrawny kid with an afro at the front and proclaim rather loudly, "You're my partner!"

Now who am I going to threaten into doing the project for me?

"Um, actually, Bella, I'd rather you not partner with Edward this week." The teacher's obnoxiously composed voice makes me snap my head up to catch him add, "It looks like Jeremy doesn't have a partner; why don't you ask him?"

"But why?" Bella pouts in that damn near irresistible way of hers that I always give into, but the teacher miraculously withstands her assault of fluttered black lashes and big, sad brown eyes.

"I'd just like you to get around a bit, have some variety." He sounds almost amused. "Plus, both of you are very good students; perhaps that scholarly attitude might rub off on your partners." He smiles at them, that lazy, half-hooded smirk that teachers have that brooks no argument.

A young, testosterone-charged kid up front turns in his seat and grins at Bella and Cullen, saying loudly enough for the whole class to hear, "Yeah, they've been doing a lot of _rubbing_ lately, I hear." He leers, ignoring the disapproving frown of the teacher, and a few fuckers snicker for half a second before returning to whatever pointless discussion they'd been having before.

Bella and Cullen blush simultaneously, glancing away from each other in obvious embarrassment.

Virgins.

Bella's blush is pretty, like she's got rose gardens in full bloom on her cheeks. Cullen's . . . well, it's— . . . not half bad. His skin is really pale, even paler then Bella's, and if the light strikes just right, I can see the blood pumping in his neck, pulsing rhythmically. Underneath, his skin is a light gold, like frosted sunlight, and the flush that's rising in his cheeks looks like brilliant red carnations have taken over and run rampant across his skin.

He looks almost . . . beautiful when he blushes.

I frown at that last errant thought, and look away, determined not to examine it more closely, and so focused am I on _not _focusing on the rosy heat that is still blooming in Cullen's cheeks, that I don't see Bella move away toward the lone kid a few tables away, and I only catch the end of the teacher's sentence: ". . . be Mr. Cullen's partner?" For some reason, Cullen is the only student who always gets referred to as "mister" by the teachers. Prick.

Both the teacher and Cullen are looking at me; I purposely avoid meeting the eyes of the latter, and instead stare at my teacher like he's grown a second nose. "Huh?" I ask. I recline in my seat with my arms crossed and scowl at the man, but apparently he's got a death wish, because he just gives me that fucking smile of his—looking far too un-intimidated—and repeats the question.

"Would you mind being Mr. Cullen's partner?" He tilts his head and arches his eyebrows, waiting for my response.

_Why, yes, Mr. Prick, sir, I do mind being the partner of a virgin-ass, cock-sucking, Bella-stealing chick magnet. _He obviously can't read my thoughts, unfortunately, because he takes my silence as an affirmative, and gives me another smile that makes me want to saw it right off his face, before nodding, "Good," and moving back to the board, turning his back to the classroom.

It's a miracle steam isn't coming out of my ears as I grab my bag and practically launch it into Bella's now vacant seat next to Cullen. He jumps as it lands, and slowly raises his head to look at me, but I don't look back, and the only reason I know he _is _looking at me is because I can always feel those sad, moss-green eyes slipping under my skin, always so gentle and accepting of every single fucking thing on this earth. Those eyes drive me insane, because they make me feel guilty. He stares and I feel like I've let him down. I feel like I need to do better.

I feel that way now, and instead of hatred, I feel ashamed—too ashamed to look Cullen in the eye. So I scowl even more and make a point to scoot my chair as far away from him as possible, but it's no use, because I can _feel _those eyes gazing at me, disappointed and hurt, like I just fucking ran over his dog and called his mother a slut. It makes me angry that I care how he looks at me. It makes me angry that I don't want him to be disappointed in me. It makes me angry that I want those eyes to sparkle and dance, to beam with happiness, like forest trees with shafts of blinding sunlight winking from between the branches and making every single leaf glow a brilliant shade of green.

It makes me angry that I don't want to make him sad.

Part of me does. Part of me wants to take away his perfect house, his perfect family, his perfect girlfriend, his perfect life, and leave him stripped bare in the streets so that I can laugh at him for thinking he could have everything. Part of me wants to hate him with everything I have.

I do hate him, so fiercely that even I don't entirely understand it. He annoys me, it's true; he would've annoyed me even without his dream life and the fact that he stole Bella from me. He always seems so at peace, so removed from the petty squabbles and dramas of high school, and so patient and kind all the fucking time. Even when I swear and call him all sorts of names to his face and threaten him with fire-inducing glares, he's never looked upset with me. Just disappointed. Always disappointed. He smiles at me every morning, but when he sees me scowl at him, he looks like he might cry, and God knows I want to make him cry for everything he has that I don't, but when he actually looks like he might do just that, I feel like a monster. Like the bad guy about to drop the heroine off the side of the bridge.

The teacher's voice distracts me from my thoughts, and for once I pay attention to him, just to keep from glaring at Cullen. "This project is going to span over the next three weeks, and it's going to count for a good percent of your grade, so don't slack off on this one." I watch the teacher determinedly as he waves his hand with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm for someone over fifty, and sigh when I hear the steady scratch of Cullen's pencil as he takes notes. "This is going to be quite basic, actually," the teacher rambles on. "I want you to find two to three poetry pieces of any kind, and I want you to combine them with your own spin. They don't necessarily have to have a similar topic or theme; in fact, the more varied, the better."

Some scrawny kid in the front raises his hand. "Do we have to write the combined thing ourselves?"

"You mean the actual verses?" The boy nods. "Yes, I will not accept a poem with verses from the original. The focus of this project is for you to draw your own conclusions about the poems and express those conclusions from your unique point of view. It doesn't matter how 'poetic'"—he puts air quotes around the word—"your version sounds; I just want to know and understand your opinion of the works."

A brunette girl up front raises her hand and asks in a snappy, obnoxiously high voice, "When is it due?"

"This project will be due on Friday, the twenty-fifth of March." The teacher raises his voice over the rising murmur of voices. "I'll go over the details tomorrow in class, but in the meantime be thinking about potential poetry to use. They can be songs, poems, excerpts from books, Chinese proverbs, pretty much anything you like." When I glance over at Cullen, who is currently bent over a notepad with his messy bronze hair hanging in his face as he scribbles furiously in his far-too-perfect scrawl, and I snicker when I see the words "Chinese proverbs" written with a bullet.

The teacher backs off and wisely takes a seat at his desk. There's twenty minutes of class time left before third period ends, not enough time to do any classwork—far too much time to sit next to Cullen in what has to be the most awkward, anger-charged silence in history, at least on my side.

I nearly groan in relief when at last the bell rings, and I leap to my feet, grab my bag, and am just about to sprint from the classroom when I feel Cullen's eyes on me, hear him inhale slowly before pushing the air back out just as he says, "Would you prefer my house or your house?"

I pause mid-step and try not to glare too ferociously at him. "Yours."

"Okay." He hesitates for a moment before apparently gathering up his scraps of bravado and smiling at me. "How about Wednesday?" he asks with that soft, almost girlish voice of his, and I smile a bit to myself, enjoying the timid, half-afraid way he speaks to me, like I'm a wild animal he's trying to back away from without getting hurt.

"Fine." I shove away from the table, and he doesn't call after me. When I actually think about what he was asking, though, it irks me for some unknown reason that I know where he lives. Of course, everyone in Forks has the Cullens' address highlighted in the phone book, simply because they're the _Cullens_, the richest, strangest, snobbiest people in town, but still, the information seems too personal, too intimate, and it makes me uncomfortable thinking I know something like that about my almost-girlfriend's boyfriend.

I don't see Cullen or Bella again that day, for which I'm grateful, and soon the day is over and I'm on the road. The sky is turning an angry black, and I know it'll be raining soon, so I speed up a little. I need to get home so I can work on my Rabbit before it starts.

The streets are nearly empty, as usual, and soon I'm pulling up in front of the run-down garage and lugging my bike into its customary bed underneath the eaves. It's drizzling now, making the grass soggy underneath my feet as I trudge around the side of the building to the back door. When I slip inside I feel a rush of grease-scented warmth envelope me, and I sigh and smile a little when I see my scrappy ol' Rabbit sitting in the middle of the room, waiting for me to get to work.

For the next few hours I fiddle with her, exploring under her hood for a bit and using what self-taught knowledge I have to figure out what I need to fix. My fingers get blacker with grease and oil as the afternoon goes on, and little by little my clothes get taken off—first my jacket, then my hoodie, then my T-shirt—until I'm on my back underneath the car in nothing but a red bandana, my ratty black tank, and my even rattier jeans, tinkering away. There's sweat gathering on my forehead and I probably smell disgusting, but when I tried revving her engine a few times, my beautiful little girl gave me a hint of an eager purr before sputtering dead, and I'm in heaven.

After I while, though, I can hear the rain rapping against the garage window, and I sigh. It'll get freezing cold in here in a few minutes, like it always does when it rains, and the garage roof leaks like a bitch, so I'll have to cover up my little girl soon and head indoors.

I adjust a few parts, just eating time, and a little while later I get out the tarp and give her a pat before gathering up my shit and holding my jacket over my head as I sprint across the puddle-ridden yard. It's raining much harder than I'd thought, and by the time I reach the porch, I'm soaked through. The screen door creaks in protest as I open it, and my shoes make muddy tracks on the green carpet as I drop my stuff on the hallway floor and set off to the kitchen in search of food.

I open the fridge and pull out a TV dinner, throwing it in the microwave and scowling as I hear the obnoxious tapping of rain against the tin roof. I've heard somewhere that the sound is supposedly pretty, but try living your entire life under a tin roof in the rainiest town in the States and you'll quickly lose all appreciation for the racket.

The microwave beeps and I open it to grab my dinner, hissing and jerking my hands back when the steam burns my fingers. When I hear the door slam, I turn in time to see my dad slouching toward his room. I listen carefully as I grab a potholder and take the dinner out, hearing the jangle of keys and the sound of some pill bottles. With a small sigh, I get a cup and put it under the faucet, and keep my back turned away when I hear him putter into the kitchen and open the fridge. There's a short silence, filled only by the thrumming of the fridge and the gush of the tap water, before I hear the telltale sound of bottles clanging together and a muted thud as he closes the door. He shuffles out of the room, but after a few seconds I hear him come back and mutter, "I probably won't be back tonight, so you can lock the door."

"Okay," I tell him, my back still turned, and he trudges out. Moments later the door bangs shut, and when I look down I see the overflowing cup clutched so tightly in my hand that my knuckles are white.

I pour the water down the drain and put the cup back in the cupboard, opting for a bottle of Jack Daniels instead and grabbing my dinner. We only have four TV channels, so I watch the local news for a while as I take sip after sip from the bottle, my meal forgotten as I listen to the pitter-patter of the rain against the roof and the dull drone of the weatherman. The hours drag by, and "Jeopardy" comes on just as I get up to get another bottle. I'm seriously considering getting thoroughly drunk, just 'cause I can, but I change my mind when I remember the sound of my dad's beer bottles clinking together as he grabbed them from the fridge, so even though I still get a second bottle, I promise myself not to get too shitfaced.

I'm just settling back down on the couch again when I hear the sound of someone hammering on the door like they're trying to stab a hole through it. "What the fuck—" I grumble to myself as I stagger to my feet, half-empty bottle in hand, and shuffle down the hall to tell whatever idiot is knocking to get the fuck off my porch. When I fling open the door and peer through the screen, however, my words get lost somewhere in my throat as I see who's huddled on my porch like a lost kitten.

"Bella?"

She looks up, her dripping wet hair hanging around her face, and even with the raindrops streaming down her face, I can tell she's crying. I clench the edge of the door when I remember that the last time she stood on my porch like this, it was because she wanted to tell me something important. That "something important" ended up being her now-public exclusivity with Edward Cullen. My heart slows for a second, then picks up its pace, because the sense of déjà vu is nearly overpowering, and my eyes widen when she moves toward me, trembling with cold, her arms crossed over her chest like she's trying to trap something inside her, trying to hold herself together. I've only seen her do that once before, and I know now that something went wrong today.

Horribly wrong.

"Bella, what happened?" I ask as gently as I can, but it comes out more like a growl, and she pauses mid-step, those huge chocolate eyes staring up at me with clear pain, and I can't watch her upper lip quiver and those eyes leak fresh tears, so I reach out and pull her close. She's so fucking tiny in my arms, like a doll that got lost on the way to the toy box. I can feel her shaking, practically vibrating against me, and I rub her back, trying to soothe her even as my head runs way ahead to various terrifying scenarios of what could've made Bella of all people cry. She sobs against my chest, her fingers grabbing fistfuls of my shirt, and I hold her and whisper nonsense into her ear, running my hands up and down her arms, stroking her hair, trying desperately to make her calm down, even as my own panic escalates. _What the hell happened_?

I tilt away after a while, just far back enough to see her face, and wince a bit, wishing my breath didn't smell like alcohol. "Do you-do you wanna come inside?" I ask, half-afraid she'd rather stay outside in the pouring rain than come in and sit down.

But Bella nods and keeps her arms wrapped around my middle, so I half-carry her inside and lead her to the living room, grabbing my bottle along the way. I'm a bit unsteady on my feet, but not as much as I could be. I've only been sipping at my bottle for the past hour or so, and when I'm drunk I don't slur or trip all over the place, so Bella probably won't notice I'm half-gone unless she gets a good whiff of my breath. We sit on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, but just as I'm about to speak up, the power flickers out.

I swear under my breath and scramble to my feet to grab the candles stashed on a dusty shelf, and hunt around the room for a lighter. Bella watches me the entire time, her eyes pretty much the only thing I can see clearly in the dark. I know she's still crying though, because once in a while she'll sniffle and let out this huge, sighing sob that makes me want to rip my heart out.

When I finally find the lighter in the hall underneath a pile of my dad's shit, I get the candles going and set them on any spare patch of table I can find. _This house is so fucking disgusting_, I think to myself, grabbing a few of the dirty dishes that litter the room and running to the kitchen to dump them in the sink. Before my fallout with Bella, the house used to be a lot cleaner, because apparently all girls are sticklers for neatness. But she hasn't been around for at least two months.

I return to my spot on the couch, bottle in hand again, and wish with all my heart for the power to come back on, because my heart is thudding being alone with Bella in the middle of a candlelit—albeit, shitty-looking—room. The candles are throwing these gold shadows across Bella's face and even though her eyes are red and puffy, she looks so incredibly beautiful. It's all I can do not to stare.

She clears her throat and looks down at her crossed legs, wrapping her arms around her middle. "Sorry for barging in like this," she whispers, sniffling again. "I probably shouldn't have come."

"It's fine, Bella," I whisper back. I want to hug her, but more than that I want to know—no, I _need_ to know—what or who made her cry. I look down at the bottle in my hands and hold it out to her with a half-hearted smile. "Want some?" I ask, which probably isn't the best idea, but I don't know what to say or do around her anymore. She hasn't spoken a single fucking word to me in weeks, and I'm afraid of somehow upsetting her.

To my surprise, she takes the bottle almost greedily and lifts it to her lips to take a long swig that has me laughing nervously and reaching out to grab the bottle away before she can empty it. "Whoa, slow down there!" I tell her, half-alarmed. I hadn't thought she'd actually want any, let alone chug a good half of what was left before I could snatch it away from her.

Bella smiles sheepishly. "Sorry," she says, and then wrinkles her nose a bit as the taste registers on her tongue. "Is there any particular reason you're drinking _that_?" For a second I raise my eyebrows before I understand, and I snicker just a little when I remember how much she absolutely _hates _Jack Daniels.

I shrug. "It was the first bottle I saw," I reply, glancing down at the retrieved bottle in my hands. She doesn't say anything, and when I look up her arms are crossed over her chest again, like she's trying to keep from caving in on herself, and her bottom lip is quivering. "Bella"—I say her name very softly, wanting to hold her but fearing she'll push me away—"what happened?"

That breaks the dam.

She bursts into fresh tears with a level of despair that, quite frankly, scars the living shit out of me, and launches her body against mine, locking her arms in a chokehold around my neck and sobbing into my shoulder. I can feel each tremor that racks through her body, and I ease my arms around her until I'm cradling her against my chest and letting her warm tears soak my shirt. She's snotting a bit on my shirt too, but I ignore it and rub slow circles on her back, whispering stupid shit in her ears and trying to get her to calm the fuck down and tell me what's wrong with her.

It takes a good twenty minutes before the tears let up, and by then my shirt is fucking disgusting, but she's collapsed in my arms, exhausted from crying so much, and I can't bring myself to care about anything except the way she sighs into my neck and pulls herself a bit closer, her body draped across mine. Luckily for us both, even Bella isn't good at turning me on when she's sobbing her heart out, so it's not that hard to keep my dick under control even with her thigh nuzzling against it, and I'm able to fully concentrate on trying to pry the answers from her.

"I've never seen you cry like this," I whisper, running a hand through her damp hair and setting the bottle on the floor. "What the hell happened?"

She sniffles and draws back into a half-sitting position on my upper leg, but she weighs next to nothing, so I don't mind. "I'm so sorry," she said, and her voice broke on the last word as she looked away from me. "I didn't mean to cry all over you."

I shift, trying to sit up, but she's still seated practically on my lap, so I end up just propping myself up with my elbows against the arm of the couch. "It's fine, Bella," I insist. _Only it's not fine, because every time I see you it's like a punch in the gut when I remember I can't have you. _"I really don't mind." _I do mind. I do mind. I do mind._

"Thanks." She smiles at me weakly, and it's all I can do not to upchuck when I think of how pale that smile is when compared to the one she always gives Edward. When she looks at him, it's almost blindingly bright. She's never smiled at me like that. Ever. "I really don't deserve to be your friend."

"Friend?" I blurt out before I can think better of it, and I want to hit myself when I see her smile falter and her eyes grow wary.

Bella presses a hand to her face, wiping away the moisture that remains on her cheeks and letting out a fluttering, nervous laugh. "Shit," she mutters, almost to herself. "I'm sorry. You're probably dying to tell me to get the fuck out of your house, I'm sure." She sniffs once and rubs her eyes with a bit too much force. "You probably hate me."

I sigh and sit up completely, snagging my arms around her so she doesn't topple to the floor and moving so that she's tucked neatly against my front, now practically sitting on my crotch, which is going to be really awkward in a few minutes when I start paying attention to how nice her ass is. But for now, my semi is safely under control. "I don't hate you," I tell her, sighing again when she presses her face into my neck and takes deep, slow, steadying breaths. I wrap my arms more securely around her back. "I promise I don't hate you."

"You should," she says, her voice muffled against my skin. "I was horrible to you—earlier . . . before-before _that_." Her fingers twine around the fabric of my shirt and she sniffles again. "I'm still really sorry."

"Hey, it's okay," I tell her, even though we both know it isn't. Trying to reassure her, I add, "I'm over acting like a petty asshole just because you like virgin-ass."

She draws away, and this time there's a glint of amusement in her cocoa-brown eyes. "Excuse me?"

I roll my eyes at her, unknowingly slipping into our old teasing habits. "Baby, your little boyfriend is the poster-child for abstinence. We both know you won't be getting any from him for a century yet."

I'm beyond surprised when she doesn't smack my arm or tell me to fuck off; instead she looks like she might cry again, and I instantly pick up the pieces her tears and silence had dropped.

This is about Cullen.

"What did he do?" I growl, and she looks up quickly, chewing on her lip and drawing her arms up over her chest like before.

"He-he . . ." She sniffles and leans against my shoulder, her face pressing into my neck again as she takes deep, heaving gulps of air.

My arms tighten around her instinctively, and I try to sound gentler when I repeat, "What did he do, Bella? Tell me."

She shudders against me, and even before she says the words I feel a gut-wrenching thirst for blood and I know I'll probably get suspended or expelled after I rearrange Cullen's face because of what she's about to tell me.

"Edward broke up with me."

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><p><em>AN: A little side-story which will make you roll your eyes: I wrote a fic a while back that got a grand total of 3 reviews, one of which was anonymous. The anonymous one said, and I quote, "what a piece of unoriginal, badly-written, talentless crap this si". I kid you not. The poor little illiterate fucker spelled "is" wrong. So please, if and when you review this fic negatively, try to remember those basic spelling skills you learned in oh, first or second grade perhaps._

_Okay, now that the storyteller in my system has been beaten into submission, there's one last thing on my mind. I'm currently looking for another beta for this fic. I'd like him/her to be experienced in beta'ing slash Twifics, with a strong feel for detail and characterization. Please let me know if you're interested. This fic is definitely out of my zone, so having a supportive guide to make my mess readable would be a huge help. (Side-note: I'm not sure whether or not there will be any lemons in this fic, but I'd like any potential beta reader to be comfortable with graphic male-on-male content if it comes to that.)_

_Okay, I'm done now, so press that little review button and show us some love!_


	2. Confrontations

_Title: Magnetism_

_Author: buildmeapyramid_

_Fandom: Twilight Saga_

_Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes_

_Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella_

_Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me._

_A/N: Wow! I'm so grateful for every review; I really didn't expect such a sweet response from everybody! I'll try to keep the updates timely, but sometimes RL calls a lass, so I can't make too many promises. Anyhow, I forgot to give honorable mention to my beta reader in the last chapter, so cheers to Number1KurtHummelFan and her ever-so-sweet beta'ing of everything I write. Show her some love!_

_Alright, I'm done, so let's start it off with a bang, shall we?_

* * *

><p>2. Confrontations<p>

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" My hands crash against the lockers on either side of his head.

Cullen looks understandably nervous, and his eyes widen when his eyes flicker over my shoulder for a moment, so I'm assuming he's looking for Bella. "What—" he begins, but I slam my fist into the locker, a bit closer to his head this time, and he shuts up.

"Did you seriously think you could do something like that and still get away with it?" I snarl, and I hear him inhale sharply. Even though we're about the same height, I'm stronger and tougher, and I use it to my advantage, towering over his lanky frame and trapping him between my arms—between my fists—against the row of lockers.

"Jacob," he starts, and he's nearly panting for some reason, "I don't—"

"Deserve her? Yeah, I fucking know it, you self-righteous prick!" I'm practically screaming at him now, and I'm surprised a teacher hasn't discovered the crowd of kids surrounding us with matching google-eyed expressions. "You don't deserve to be in the same fucking room as her, but I would've thought even a shit-faced virgin like you would've realized that if you treated Bella like anything less than the fucking queen of England, I would beat the living fuck out of you!" I'm no more than a few electric-charged inches away from his body, and I can feel the energy sizzling underneath the surface. For some reason I'm shaking, and I can't tell if it's from anger or something else.

"Jacob, listen—" Cullen pleads, and there are actual tears in his eyes. I've made him cry. Good. But it doesn't make me feel better for some reason. I still feel like shit and I don't understand why.

I'm practically nose-to-nose with him now, fury dancing through my blood, but we still aren't touching. "Oh, please," I say scornfully, "explain to me why you're so fucking special that you can fucking break Bella's heart and not get your ass kicked straight through the pearly gates." He can't look me in the eye, and I feel like a monster. "I'd really love to hear you justify it."

He rubs a hand over his face, and my heart clenches for some reason when I see his lips trembling. I don't want to hurt him, but then again I do. I want him to know just how much it hurts to give up everything for someone but end up rejected. I'd given up chasing after Bella because I didn't want to hurt her; I thought she'd be happy with Cullen, since she clearly wasn't happy with me. I guess not.

"Jacob," he sighs, and I feel the anger coming back in waves. He doesn't look at all repentant, just sad. So incredibly _sad_. "I know you're probably upset—"

I growl and slam my fist into the locker again, trying to enjoy it when he flinches. "Upset doesn't even cover it, you fucking leech!"

"—but I can't lie to her anymore." That shuts me up. He fidgets for a minute before adding slowly, "I-I don't-I don't—"

"Don't what?" I snap, and when he looks up at me with tear-filled eyes, I can see a struggle warring inside him. He looks so fucking miserable. He knows what he's done to Bella, and he hates himself for it. I can barely look at him in the eye without feeling my hatred shattering in the face of his pain, and it makes me angry. My voice is harsher than I intend it to be when I repeat, "Don't _what_, Cullen?" He shakes his head stubbornly, refusing to meet my eyes, and I nearly scream in frustration. I want to hurt him so badly. My hands are aching to touch his throat, to strangle him or—or to pull him close. To comfort him. To tell him he's forgiven, that everything will be okay. I clench my jaw and let out a loud breath of air, feeling my heartbeat race with the conflicts and emotions clawing through me. I'm scared of touching him, because I don't know what I'll do anymore—scared of what I'll say and think and feel and whether or not I'll want to choke him when my hands take a firm hold of that ivory neck. I don't understand why I feel this intensely about Cullen; I barely know him. He's the boyfriend—ex-boyfriend now—of my ex-best friend, but little more than an irritating face to me, so why do my hands itch whenever he's close by, close enough to smell that almost unbearably sweet odor that clings to his body? Why do I want to hold him and hate him and soothe him and rip him apart at the same time? I'm just about to give in to the confusion muddling my brain when I see a tiny sparkle of a tear drip from his eye, and I bristle. I don't like the slow, steady burn of sympathy uncurling in my stomach; it unnerves me.

So I do the only thing I can think of: I slam my fists against the lockers again, making him jump, and glower at him as ferociously as I can, feeling like a complete and utter jackass as I snarl just inches from his face, "Don't _what_?"

I want to fall through the floor when I see his face screw up like he's about to cry, but he just takes a deep breath and visibly braces himself before meeting my eyes. "I don't—" he begins, but pauses and inhales again before he goes on very slowly, "I don't . . . have the-the right feelings."

I scowl. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

He cringes away from me, presumably because of my swearing, and his breath becomes quicker as he stares up at me, looking even more torn than he did before. My own breath speeds up to fall in line with his until I'm sure our hearts are chasing each other in perfect rhythm, and I watch, almost without realizing it, as he snags his bottom lip in his teeth and studies me with those grass-green eyes. I barely register the shuffle of feet as someone stomps toward us calling out, "Hey! What's going on here?"

I don't even twitch. Cullen is staring at me like the next thing he says will make me or break me, and I don't know what to make of it, so I stare back, waiting for him to answer me.

After a few moments of what seems like eternity, he looks away, toward my left arm, which is located about three inches or so from his face, and I can feel his cool breath tickling the sensitive skin of my forearm, making the hairs there raise and sending a strange whoosh of nerves whistling through my veins. My nails dig into my palms, and he keeps his eyes on my arm as he murmurs, "I don't love her like I should." He shudders. "I can't give her what she wants." He looks back at me, partially from underneath those ridiculously long lashes of his, and whispers so softly that I have to lean in to catch the words, "I'm not right for her."

That's when I hit him.

* * *

><p>I clutch the corn-colored sheet in my right hand as I stalk through the rain toward my bike, swearing foully under my breath and praying to God Bella hasn't come back to my house while I was at school. She'd decided to skip today, and I'm pretty sure she knew I'd try something with Cullen, but she didn't say a word. Not a single fucking word, and that's what worries me. With any other guy she'd be begging me to lay off on the decapitating, but even though I kept giving hints to her all evening, she didn't seem to give a shit what I did. She's different, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing, but I'm fairly sure that even if she doesn't mind my decking her beloved virgin-ass, she will definitely mind my getting suspended in the process. She'll probably hit me on the arm a few times, and I'll pretend that it hurt, and she'll tell me I'm worse than Charlie, and I'll tell her to quit dating douchebags. She won't, but she'll laugh and we'll exchange promises and vows of immediate lifestyle changes. And we'll forget all about Cullen, and maybe in a few years she'll love me enough to let me make her happy.<p>

At least, that's what I tell myself as I slosh through the puddles toward my Harley. The queasy feeling in my stomach tells me it won't be so easy.

The paper in my hand is now dripping wet, soddenly clinging to my fingertips, and I crumple it up and shove it into my packet. I'm not supposed to come back to school until next Monday, so I don't know whether or not I'll have a chance to see Cullen's in all its black and blue glory. I hit him pretty hard, so I might get to see my handiwork on his face if he isn't a fast healer—which, judging by his utter lack of balls, he's probably not. Either way, it'll be a beauty.

I'm halfway home by the time I realize there's a puddle of water on my bike seat, and I can't bring myself to care that my ass is fully submerged in ice-cold rainwater. I'm too busy trying to focus on feeling pleased with myself for decking Cullen, but it's hard, because all I can think about is the way his face crumbled when I raised my right arm, the way his eyes met mine just a split second before my fist connected with his face. It was cruel and unnecessary, but I'd done it anyway because I thought that punching him would help me defend Bella and show him just what he'd lost. I thought it would make me feel better.

Instead, I feel like shit. Those eyes make me hate myself. They're haunting me, and I swear I catch a glimpse of his moss-green irises flickering in my rearview mirror for a fleeting moment before the rain washes them away. My hands are cold and shaking on the handlebars, and I can't feel the heavy rain pelting against my face. When I get home I'll end up calling Bella—if she's not already at my house, that is—and confessing that I gave her newly-single boyfriend a black-and-blue, but for now I'm alone with my thoughts. Alone with those eyes.

I should be on Cloud Nine. I should be whooping and racing down the streets going at least twenty miles over the speed limit. I should be grinning and nearly pissing myself for joy because I finally, _finally _gave Virgin-Ass Cullen a shiner. I should be happy.

So why am I crying?

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><p><em>AN: Well, I'm completely shell-shocked that I wrote this entire thing in a day. As an award-winning procrastinator, this simply will not do. Anyway, thanks again to those who reviewed, and though I think I replied to everyone, if I missed you I apologize._

_Also, I'm sorry this chapter was fairly shorty, but I was really happy with it, and I hope you are too, but remember, I've got two middle fingers that will blow your mind, baby, so be careful what you say. ;)_


	3. Differences

_Title: Magnetism_

_Author: buildmeapyramid_

_Fandom: Twilight Saga_

_Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes_

_Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella_

_Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me._

_A/N: Thank you everybody for the wonderful reviews; I keep waiting for someone to hate this story, but so far I've gotten lucky! Also, I apologize for the delay; FanFiction threw a tantrum sometime this week, and it bummed me into slacking off of this chapter for some reason._

_Anyway, here's the third chapter, so enjoy!_

~oOo~

3. Differences

Dad doesn't come home for two nights, and when he finally shows up around noon on Sunday, he finds me lying upside down on the couch with my head hanging off the edge of the seat while I study an old porn magazine I found in my dresser. I glance up once, taking in his matted hair and the overpowering stench of alcohol and sweat that's coming off him in waves, before returning to my magazine. "Hi," I say.

"What're you doing here?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse, like he's been yelling for hours. For all I know, he could've been.

"Got suspended," I tell him, flipping a page and faking interest in a big-breasted brunette.

I hear rather than see him shift from one foot to the other. "For what?" he asks after a moment, and my fingers grip the magazine more tightly.

It takes me a second to answer. "Got in a fight," I finally say, chancing another look at him.

He looks uncomfortable, glancing around nervously but probably not actually seeing anything. "Oh." He yawns and runs a hand through his unwashed hair, and I have to work to keep from grimacing in disgust as I turn my eyes back to my magazine. After a few awkward seconds of silence, he turns and walks away toward his room, and I hear a door bang shut after a minute.

I sigh and let the magazine slip from my fingers and onto the carpet. It's been storming all day, meaning I can't work on my car, so I've been cleaning all fucking day, something my dad just now failed to notice. I did all the dirty dishes and about ten loads of laundry, and I dusted and scrubbed and vacuumed until my back ached and my mouth tasted like sawdust. Bella has called twice in the past hour, but even though I know I should be thrilled that she's even speaking to me, I can't seem to get past the fact that I'm her spare. I'm her second choice, and I always will be, and fucking Edward Cullen is going to leave his mark on _my _Bella. She'll never get over how fucking perfect he apparently is in her severely obstructed view, and she'll never even think of me except as a last resort. Even now she doesn't want me, she doesn't want Jacob; she wants a shoulder to cry on, and I don't feel like settling at the moment. I just want to be alone, and think, and try to rub the image of those watering green eyes out of my head even though I know they won't go away. My mind, my body—fuck, even my soul—is trapped inside those eyes, and I don't know how to free myself.

So, even though I know I'll regret it the instant I hear her voice, I have to do something to get _him_ out of my mind, to scrub that crushed expression off the back of my eyelids. With that reasoning in mind, I hunt down my phone and dial the number, holding it to my ear and returning to my previous position on the couch. I don't have to wait long.

"Hello?"

"Bella?" My voice sounds strange, even to me.

"Oh, hi, Jake." Her voice is tired. "I was wondering when you'd call me back."

"Yeah, sorry, my phone was on silent," I lie, and for a second I feel bad about my tiny fib, but then I remember all the times she's lied to me, and I square my jaw.

"Oh," is all she says. I have a feeling she knows I'm not being honest, but instead of chewing me out for it, all I hear is her even breathing on the other end.

"So what's up?" I ask, trying to sound as cheerful as I don't feel, which is made harder by the aching, nauseous feeling in my gut, like I've done something horribly wrong, but I have no idea what it is.

"Nothing, I guess," she replies. The exhaustion outlined in every syllable she speaks is doing nothing to lift my spirits. "Just doing some homework."

"People actually _do_ homework on Sundays?" I don't recognize my own voice. I sound almost . . . perky. Like I'm trying too hard to act happy.

"Actually, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who does." Her voice is beginning to lighten, and I smile to myself, instantly comforted by her half-amused tone.

"Freak," I tease, chuckling into the phone, and I hear her laugh. It's beautiful.

"You know you love me."

My heart stutters and I freeze, barely breathing. The smile slides off my face and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ignore the pain ripping through me at her casual words. I didn't think she'd be so tactlessly forgetful, even though it's been almost two months since I told her how I feel.

There's a pause before she realizes what she's said, and when she does, she sighs and I can practically see her banging her forehead against the nearest available wall. "Shit, Jake, I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"No, it's fine," I interrupt quickly. I don't want to think about it, and right now what I really want right now is to hang up and go work on my Rabbit, because this conversation is doing the opposite of distracting me. She doesn't say anything, so I add, "Really, I am," in an attempt to reassure her.

She sighs again, and I know she's rubbing her forehead, frowning and pursing her lips in frustration. "Jake, I'm just . . . I just don't—"

"Drop it, Bella." I sort of regret snapping at her like that, but every time she reminds me—even without meaning to—that she doesn't feel the same way, it'll never stop hurting. She's my best friend, sure, but that's like putting a Band-Aid on a broken leg. Not enough. At least, not for me.

She does drop it, and there's at least a minute of silence stretching over our quiet breathing and the crackle of the cell phone, before she asks softly, "Would you rather I leave you alone?" I know she doesn't want to. She wants to knock me upside the head and force everything out of me with a truth serum or something, until everything—and I mean everything—is out in the open. She wants me to confide in her. And I don't.

I blow out a shaky breath that leaves my lungs burning for oxygen. "I dunno, kind of," I answer, shifting so that my head is propped more securely against the seat cushion. "I mean, I _want _to talk to someone, but maybe I should just call Embry or—hell—even Leah."

"Ouch." Her voice is teasing again.

"No offense," I add hastily.

She harrumphs, and I know she's crossing her arms and glaring at whatever is in front of her. "I'm still offended."

I laugh a little, relieved that she's not going to press me. "Fine," I say, "I won't call Leah."

"That's better," she replies, satisfied, and I can picture her smug smile.

"I might text her though," I add, sniggering when I hear her let out a huff of fake outrage.

"Asshole," she growls.

It slips out before I can think better of it. "It's why you love me."

Silence. Completely, utterly destructive silence.

Shit.

"I'm-I'm really sorry, Jake," she finally whispers, and it sounds like she's about to cry. "About everything." She chokes on the last word.

I sigh and squeeze my eyes shut. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" I say quietly.

"Okay, Jake."

"Bye." I flip the phone shut and stare up at the ceiling, wanting to call Emily or maybe Sam and try and figure out how to sort through this shit with Bella and Cullen, but I'm too exhausted to do more than let out a breath and let my head fall to the side.

Calling Bella was supposed to help, was supposed to make me forget. But all it did is make me remember.

~oOo~

A week ago, I could've enjoyed the terrified looks on all the kids' faces as they saw me stalking down the hall. Today, all I can think about is the reason behind their fear. Cullen's shiner must be really fucking impressive to have this kind of reaction, and for some reason the realization doesn't make me grin and congratulate myself on my skills. I can see those eyes swimming in my vision, which makes me scowl and quicken my pace. Students skitter out of my path like I'm a wrecking ball. I don't really want to get to class early, but I'm not enjoying being gawked at in the hall, so I have little choice but to hurry toward English and pray that one Virgin-Ass Cullen has decided to shock us all, and skip school for the very first time.

Naturally, he's one of the first to get to class.

He looks awful. The purplish bruise on his left cheekbone is still there, probably a bit mellowed from what it was before, but still angry-looking, and the contrast against his fair skin is almost shocking. His head is bowed over his notes as usual, and he's sitting at his regular table, only Bella isn't next to him; she's taken over some Jessica girl's seat and is now talking to her new table partner, an incredibly annoying kid named Max or Mike, or something like that, but I see her continuously glancing over to where her oblivious ex-boyfriend is taking notes, and I bristle at the mournful expression on her face. I'm about to move to my regular table at the back before I see that it's currently being occupied by two scrawny geeks hunched over a comic book, and I look around anxiously, but the only seat not taken is the one next to _him_.

"Ah, Jacob, so nice of you to join us!" I scowl at the English teacher, who is currently glaring at me like I've interrupted a Congress meeting instead of a lecture he probably stole straight from a textbook. He frowns at me and motions toward Cullen's table, and I see Cullen stiffen, but he doesn't look up. His hand stills over his notes as the teacher adds, "Take a seat, and please note that this is your last tardy before I'll have to report you."

I don't answer, opting instead to glower at him for a moment before reluctantly moving toward Cullen, my hands digging as deep as possible into my pockets. He doesn't speak, or give any obvious reaction, but I see his fingers trembling and the way he sort of folds in on himself, like he's trying to shrink to nothing and disappear. I did that, but for some reason, I feel the opposite of proud. I feel like a monster.

We don't speak, or look at each other, or even breathe too loudly, for the next hour. I can still feel the sweet-smelling coolness radiating from his body—somehow he's always cold, another thing that sets us apart, since I always feel like stripping down to my underwear because I'm always hot. About twenty minutes into the class, I'm sweating in my T-shirt, but this time I'm not sure if it's entirely due to my body temperature or something else. Usually I do get sort of steamed up around Cullen because I'm fighting the urge to choke him to death. This is different. It's a pleasant heat, almost like I'm flushing, like I'm squirmy, like I'm . . . aroused.

Shit.

I look down and, sure enough, there's a nicely-curved ridge in my jeans that was definitely not there ten minutes ago. I glance at Cullen, whose eyes are attached to the teacher like he's in the middle of the desert and Mr. Garrison is an oasis. He obviously hasn't noticed my little "problem", much to my relief. I very discreetly shift so that my hand is draped over my lap, and pray like I've never prayed before that my erection goes away before the bell rings. There's twenty minutes left in first period, and for reasons I can't begin to comprehend, I have a fucking boner in English class and I'm sitting less than two feet away from Edward fucking Cullen.

God help me.

Cullen moves without warning, propping his elbow up on the table and resting his cheek on his palm, his right arm shifting to mirror my position, and I close my eyes, trying to ignore the thoughts crowding my head. People like Cullen don't get hard-ons, do they? No, it's not possible. I'll bet he doesn't know what a morning wood is; how could he possibly figure out how to get it up in English class, of all places? No, I'm imagining things. I'm the only one between us with the ability to pop wood, so I'm damn well the only one between us who has a boner while our teacher lectures about the influence of Shakespeare upon modern-day poetry. And that's final.

Cullen doesn't move an inch until the end of class—neither do I—but when the bell rings we both practically bolt from our chairs, trying to escape as quickly as possible, only we do it with such synchronized timing that we end up slamming straight into each other and landing in a tangled heap on the floor with limbs forming a sort of disfigured pretzel and papers floating to the ground around us. I ignore the snickers of those who dare laugh at my moment of clumsiness, and instead look up to find Cullen staring at me with the same expression as every other student in the hall this morning—fear. Like I'm going to deck him again for running into me by accident. Which, if it was any other student, I'd probably do just that, only I know if I hurt him again, I'll only grow more confused about everything. I don't ever want to see him cry again.

We flush red at the same time and look away, directing our attention to the papers scattered around us. Pretty much all of it is his, since I don't have that many to begin with. I study the papers a bit more closely. His math worksheets with each problem written out neatly, his short history essays, his Spanish homework, his . . . notes. I look at these the longest, page upon page scrawled in elegant, spidery letters, listing carefully every point of the lecture.

I only get a few seconds to study them though; Cullen lets out a barely audible gasp and scrambles to gather his things, avoiding my eyes like the plague. I don't make a move to help him—I can't bring myself to forgive him completely for what he did—but I do move my hand so he can grab a science worksheet. His fingers brush my wrist for not even a second, his eyes nothing more than a flash of gold-specked emerald before he looks away again, and I can feel the energy zap between us where our skin touched, heating my blood and making me let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. My eyes widen and I glance down at my hand, not understanding why it felt like a finger in the light socket or an electric shock when he touched me. His fingers are cold and soft and long, the color of white marble, and against my skin they felt incredible. Like all the life in my body was tied to the simple contact, making my heart beat and my blood pump and my airways pull in air.

I swallow and look down to see that my little soldier, which was previously in retreat, is now once again at attention, forcing me to shift my leg so Cullen can't see.

He's only partially done picking up when I force myself to quit staring at his hands as they nimbly collect each page, each movement of those long, slender fingers making it harder for me to breathe, to think. My voice shakes for a second before I can steady it as I say, "Sorry 'bout that." Wait. Did I just apologize? That was not what I meant to say. Far from it. I meant to glare at him and tell him to watch where he's going, not say sorry like some overgrown pussy.

His eyes flash up and don't look away this time, his expression nearly as incredulous as mine, and it bothers me that he expects me to treat him like shit, even though I've always done just that. "It-it was my fault," he murmurs, those absurdly long black lashes fluttering down for a moment before he looks up. "I-I should've . . . I should've been more careful."

I bite down my tongue to keep from apologizing _again_, and this time I have no idea why I feel the urge to do so, only I don't like how he keeps glancing at me and gnawing on his bottom lip with this almost nervous expression on his face. I don't want him to be afraid of me anymore, and I wish I did. It would make everything so much easier to hate him with all my heart, rather than feel like I'm suddenly being torn between hate and something else, something weird and unnerving and totally unexpected that clouds my brain whenever I see him or hear his name.

"You boys okay over here?" Mr. Garrison barks, and I look up to find him looming up behind me with a twinkle in his eyes.

Cullen smiles tightly, and from the corner of my eye I see a quicksilver dash of dark green irises in my direction before he replies calmly, "We're fine, sir. Just tripped."

"I can see that," the teacher says, smiling back. His forehead creases for a moment before he looks at me with significantly less warmth in his eyes than before and asks, "Weren't you suspended, Jacob?"

"Yeah." I scowl at the reminder and glance at Cullen, who immediately busies himself with collecting his papers.

The teacher sighs. "You might want to get together soon and get caught up. You missed a lot last week, Jacob. The other groups have already started selecting their poems. Perhaps you can meet at one of your houses sometime this week?"

I turn in time to see Cullen lift his head and smile at Mr. Garrison without meeting my eyes. "He could come to my house today, if that's convenient for him."

The teacher smiles in apparent satisfaction and says before I can reply, "Splendid, Mr. Cullen! I'll look forward to reading your poems of choice next month." And with a little wave and another smile at Cullen that proves just how much of a teacher's pet my nemesis is, Mr. Garrison is striding out the door and calling someone's name down the hall.

I turn to Cullen. "Today?" My voice comes out just a tad too high-pitched, and I see his eyebrows raise for a tiny second.

He lifts a hand and runs it through that shimmering bronze hair. For a moment of unbridled sensation I feel the urge to replace his hand with my own. My dick throbs in agreement. "If . . . that's okay with you, that is," he says slowly, his eyes flashing up to meet mine for a moment before dropping back to his feet. He shuffles his papers together, and there's that delicate blush coloring his cheeks again. I want to grin at his bashfulness.

I clear my throat instead. "Uh, sure," I reply, and my voice is more gravelly than I intend, but fuck, I'm a bit distracted by my _random raging hard-on_, so I honestly think it's a bit high-and-mighty to expect me to speak normally at the moment. There's a short, tense silence between us before I clear my throat and discreetly adjust myself before saying, "See you, then." He nods and I stagger to my feet and trudge away, but not before glancing over my shoulder to see him bending over to pick up a stray paper underneath a table with his ass pointed straight in the air _at me_, and for some reason the sight makes me bite my lip to hold back a groan. I glance around once, feeling heat climb up my neck, before ducking out the door and practically sprinting down the halls, students parting to make way for me like I'm a fucking tornado.

The rest of the day is hell—I seriously think they should establish longer bathroom breaks because five minutes is a very short amount of time in which to jack off in the men's room. Unless you're like, Superman, of course. Or Paul. That guy goes through girls like tequila shots, and everyone knows his motto on _that_: "The day I can't hold my alcohol is the day hell freezes over." It's sort of admirable in a way.

By the time the last bell rings, I can't feel my balls, and when I squeeze past a girl talking with some jock, I catch her raising her eyebrows in shock at me, and I realize I probably inadvertently pressed myself against her ass. Only, how come I didn't notice? I can't remember the last time I felt a girl's ass against my front and didn't feel a thing. The fact that my not-so-little Sergeant Black is standing at full attention on the front of my mind further confuses me; I can barely think, I feel dizzy, and it's probably because all the blood in my body is gathering in my nether regions.

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_

It's raining hard and fast when I slam through the doors and into the parking lot, and I raise my jacket over my head in a futile effort to keep it out of my eyes. Bella's pulling her scrap metal truck—a "present" I helped pay for in the first place—out of her regular spot and through the rain I can make out her hand waving through the window, but I pretend not to see and continue splashing through the puddles, eager to get to my bike and speed home for a quick shower and jack-off session before I head over to Cullen's house.

I can already tell it's going to be a really fucking long afternoon.

~oOo~

The rain has eased to a light drizzle by the time I pull onto the long, winding driveway that leads to the Cullens'. I've only been here once, though I've never actually been _inside _the house or met Cullen's parents—his little sister is in my gym class though—and I don't have any fond memories at all of _that _day, but the address is burned into my mind for some reason.

I did take a shower before I left, and my clothes are clean, even though I debated wearing the filthiest, rattiest outfit I could put together just to see how the elite Cullen clan would react. Eventually the manners my mother instilled in me before she died won over, and I'm now wearing freshly-washed jeans and a black tank and hoodie. I'm also soaking wet, but there's nothing I can do about that; Harleys don't exactly come with built-in roofs.

When at last the rough dirt-and-more-dirt path turns into a gravel road, I can see the massive two-story mansion looming ahead, both intimidating and welcoming. There's at least five huge bay windows on each side of the house, and through the rain I think a see a face peeking out of one of them, but it could be my eyes playing tricks on me. My bike groans a bit as I slow to a stop in the driveway and take off my helmet, and I drag her under a nearby tree in an attempt to keep her at least partly dry, before I trudge onto the porch and wipe my feet on the rug that says, "Come on in! We won't bite." When I ring the doorbell, I can hear the sound of a piano falter and stop, and then the patter of feet and a trilling laugh.

The door swings open and Cullen's face peers around it, dimples I never knew existed appearing in his pink-tinged cheeks as he smiles at me. The bruise is still there, a dark cloud on his sunny face, but I'm still unprepared; his eyes are sparkling and I catch a glimpse of pearly white teeth between his lips, and I want to smile back, but I can't quite figure out how to without confusing myself. So I give him a nod, and his eyes sadden just a little before he says shyly, "Please, come inside."

I step across the threshold, and for a moment I'm mere inches away from him, the scent of his skin filling my nose, and I wonder if it's even possible to smell that good. I see his eyes flicker to mine for a second as he shuts the door, and I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, feeling horribly overgrown and clumsy in the midst of my pristine surroundings. Edward gestures for me to take my shoes off, and when my sock-clad feet touch the cream-colored carpet they sink down by at least an inch.

All the walls are white, and pictures of the Cullens are hung all over the place to the point that it looks like a miniature museum. There's one of some picnic they went on, even a few ones where the entire family is posing in front of landmarks like London Bridge and the Eiffel Tower, and a ridiculous number of baby pictures.

There's about ten feet of empty space before the floor is broken by a kitchen island with marble countertops. The cupboards are clear glass, and all the appliances are stainless steel. The entire room looks like a picture out of a "Home Depot" catalog, complete with a blond man with rolled-up shirtsleeves cutting a cucumber and a petite woman wearing a baby blue apron and emptying the dishwasher.

Edward clears his throat and smiles at the two. "Mom, Dad, this is Jacob Black," he says softly, and he glances at me again, so quickly that I barely catch it, before he looks down to study his toes, his riotous curls tumbling down to cover his eyes.

The Cullens move forward in perfect unison, but the father hangs back while his wife moves forward with clasped hands and shining eyes. Neither of them look a thing like Edward.

Mrs. Cullen smiles at me like I'm her son's best friend instead of his worst nightmare, and unexpectedly wraps her arms around me, her honeysuckle-and-vanilla fragrance enveloping me. She's tiny, at least a foot shorter than me, with caramel hair and creamy skin, and she feels like home and laughter and summer nights spent stargazing. It's hard not to love her, and I sink into her embrace, enjoying the warmth that seems to radiate straight from her heart. Soon, however, she pulls away and examines my face for a moment, before her smile brightens, nearly blinding me with her happiness. "So you're Jacob," she says, her heart-shaped face glowing at me like I'm the prodigal son come home at last.

I nod and smile back a little, because I really can't help it; I feel like if I don't, it'll break her heart. She's like her son in that way, I suppose. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Cullen," I reply, and to my embarrassment I sound almost bashful.

"Oh, please," she laughs, "call me Esme." Her honey-brown eyes are dancing as she gazes up at me, her hands still grasping my upper arms, and she winks at me. I try not to look as confused as I feel by the gesture.

"Okay, Esme," I say, and she releases her grip and steps away to where Mr. Cullen is standing, and the man wraps his arms around his wife and presses a kiss to her hair. I feel a strange envy twist through my blood at the sight.

"I'm Carlisle," the man says kindly. His frosty eyes are warm with welcome as he says, "We're so glad to meet a friend of Edward's."

I glance at Edward, who is currently studying the floor with focused intensity, his messy hair hanging in his eyes, before I look back and smile tightly at the father. "Thanks, sir." It's fairly obvious that Edward didn't divulge the details of exactly _who _hit him, and I don't know quite what to make of it.

"Our daughter Alice is out with a friend," Esme pipes up, beaming at me, "and Emmett is at football practice, but they should be back before dinner. You two get to work and I'll bring you some iced tea if you want."

"Thanks, Mom," Edward finally says, and he turns away without looking at me, heading toward the stairs, so I smile again at his parents and follow him down the hall without a word.

The entire floor is a sprawling open space, and the only rooms I can see are the kitchen and a massive living room with a plasma that looks almost the size of a full-grown rhinoceros. Everything is white—the couches, the walls, the carpet, even the picture frames. The stairs are painted white too, and I tiptoe up them, afraid I'll leave a smudge. The house is comfortable, I guess, but I always feel like I need to be very careful not to leave any trace of myself behind.

Edward is ahead of me, and my eyes are level with his upper thighs—I can see his leg muscles flexing with each step he takes and the sight is mesmerizing, so I look down. When we reach the landing, there are more white walls and carpet, and all the doors are wide open. There's a room filled with sports trophies and posters of cars, and another that resembles a ballet studio, only it has a bed and there's a closet overflowing with clothes and shoes that I'm pretty sure is a walk-in. Edward leads me down the hall, his feet silent on the carpet, and I trail behind him until we reach the one closed door I can see. Those long fingers reach out and turn the knob, and the door swings open, and we walk inside.

The first thing I notice is the fact that the walls in here aren't white. They're a deep, vivid marine blue, and there aren't any pictures except for an abstract painting of rusty reds and browns that somehow makes me feel exposed, like he's snuck a peek in my head and knows my secrets and painted them on a canvas. There's a huge bay window on the far wall, and besides the massive bed there's a dresser and a chaise lounge and a bookcase that has to be at least as tall as me. Next to the window there's also a keyboard with music sheets littering the surface.

Edward glances at me and he looks nervous, so I plop down on the floor and try to ignore how weird it feels to be in the bedroom of the guy who stole Bella from me. "What should we do first?" I ask hesitantly, running a hand through my hair.

He seems surprised by my question. "Well, I've already got a few ideas for a poem, so maybe you can find a few options for another and we can work on the combination." I really have very limited knowledge when it comes to poetry, but I nod and he hands me a sleek laptop that must've cost a fortune before moving over to his bookcase.

"What're you gonna do?" I blurt out, and he turns with a shy look in his eyes.

"I-I was gonna read a bit of Tennyson," he murmurs. "If that's alright," he adds hastily, and I bite down on my lip when he blushes again for no apparent reason. My skin is tingling with energy, and I don't know how long I can stand being alone in a room with him.

I nod quickly. "Oh, yeah, that's fine. I-I was just curious." He smiles and turns away, and I let out a loud breath before setting the laptop down in front of me and opening it. It looks like it's never been used. I open a tab and type "poems" into the search engine, and over a hundred million results come up. I sigh and type in "short poems" instead—a little over fourteen million results this time. I glance up at Edward who has pulled out a little book and is now lying on his stomach on the chaise lounge, mouthing the words of each page with a slight crease in his brow. I type in "Tennyson poems". Just over a million results.

I browse for what feels like hours, clicking on random results after a while just to pretend I'm being productive. Most of the poems are so cliché they make me cringe, while the others are just nonsensical, romantic nonsense. Eventually I can't take it anymore; I very quietly close the laptop and ask, "What're you reading?"

Edward jumps about two feet in the air, and nearly falls off the lounge. A quick snort of laughter escapes me before I can stop it, and Edward flushes and grins, those damned dimples appearing again. He stutters for a moment before answering slowly, "It's called 'Charge of the Light Brigade'."

"Oh. Sounds exciting." I'm trying very hard not to grin back at him.

His smile widens. "Very. It's a bit violent though; I'd hate to be in this poem." His eyes meet mine shyly, and I want to stop the way my heart plummets at the way those eyes shimmer with warmth. I glance away, swallowing hard and trying to understand why my head is foggy and the room is growing hot.

I'm about to reply when I hear the door open, and we both turn our heads to see Esme standing in the open doorway, smiling brightly. "How's it coming in here?" she asks cheerfully.

"Good," we answer, and her smile widens.

"What time is it?" Edward asks, propping himself up on his elbows.

Esme looks at her wrist. "A little after five," she answers.

"Oh crap," I mutter, scrambling to my feet. "I should probably go," I tell her. "I don't want to impose, and I should get home before it gets dark and the weather gets bad." It's a perfect excuse to escape from this house and the guy who's continuously keeping me on edge.

"Jacob, why don't you just stay for dinner?" Esme asks me. "The rain is supposed to let up in a while, and we're happy to have you." She smiles, those warm honey eyes hopeful, and I just can't say no and see the shine dim in those eyes, so I smile and nod even though I'm itching to get away from Edward and the confusion that clouds my thoughts whenever he's nearby. Esme nearly bounces on her feet in what can only be described as glee, and her smile widens until she's grinning like I've just handed her the keys to Buckingham Palace. "We're having roast beef and steamed potatoes and all sorts of vegetables—oh! And peach cobbler for desert, it's Edward's favorite!" I've never seen someone so excited over a meal, but her enthusiasm is infectious and I can't help but grin back at her.

Edward's eyes meet mine for a moment and he clears his throat. Esme immediately stops her bouncing and her mouth forms an "o" before she covers it with her hand and flushes. "Sorry," she says, glancing at me before her eyes flash back to her son's. "It's just, it's been so _long _since—"

Edward shakes his head slightly with another flicker of his eyes in my direction, and I frown, wondering if he knows that I'm not a total oaf and I can see he's trying to keep her from giving something away. Esme's hand drops and she bites down on her bottom lip, trying to smile but it doesn't reach her eyes like it should. She takes a deep breath before saying with a determinedly bright cheerfulness, "Dinner's in ten. Don't forget to wash your hands!" She waves a little and winks at me before slipping back out the door, leaving me alone with Edward again, wondering what he's hiding.

~oOo~

The tiny hummingbird holds out a hand and smirks at me with eyes twinkling from between strands of short, straight black hair that stick out in every direction. On a guy her hair would look like that belonging to one of the freshly-fucked, but when I take in her ballet slippers and designer summer dress that looks entirely out of place in the rainiest town in the U.S., I know it must take hours to style it like that. "I'm Alice," she says, and her eyes glitter again, like twin midnight-blue pools filled to the brim with secrets. Against my better judgment I reach out and shake her hand, but to my surprise she doesn't flip my hand and examine my palm and tell me my future is dark or I'll die young. She looks like she'd be into that stuff, but with Saint Edward for a brother, she might be a church-going prude too.

"Nice to meet you," I say, and she gives me a truly alarming Cheshire grin before skipping off toward the kitchen.

Edward smiles at me, his eyes almost tender. "Don't worry about her," he murmurs, leaning over the table to set down a plate. "She's a bit strange at first, but she'll warm up to you." It's the first he's spoken to me since we came downstairs.

"Oh."

I don't know what else to say, so I busy myself arranging silverware until a huge, bear-like form lumbers out of nowhere and wraps his muscular arms around Edward, lifting him clear off the ground and swinging him around like a China doll. I yelp in shock but Edward only laughs and wrestles against the bear's granite hold until after a moment he's released, gasping for breath. "Geez, Emmett, didn't Mom tell you to lay off the sneak attacks?"

The bear—or Emmett, I guess—laughs and tousles Edward's hair. "I believe her exact words were, 'Not in the house, boys.'" He grins and winks and when he straightens up a little his eyes find me frozen on the other side of the table, sort of half-afraid and half-admiring of his size. "Is this him then?" His eyes narrow and he starts to resemble an angry bull about to charge at some poor defenseless matador, but Edward puts a hand on his shoulder and says something very softly, and Emmett immediately relaxes and steps toward me with an outreached hand, though his smile is still a bit frosty as he says, "Nice to meet you. I'm Emmett, Edward's big bro."

Like with Alice, I'm almost afraid to shake his hand, but this time for an entirely different reason. "Jacob," I reply, eyeing his hand before forcing myself to reach out my own. "Jacob Black. Edward's—um—"

Emmett rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I know," he says, and I get the feeling Edward's told him about our past encounters. His smile warms a bit as his eyes do a once-over of me, and it's sort of unnerving to know that if he wanted to he could throw me across the room without breaking a sweat. The guy is _huge_. He's got to be on the long side of six and a half feet, and his biceps are easily as thick as tire wheels.

I'm distracted for a moment though when a blond comes into sight, walking alongside Esme and laughing. I can hardly keep from staring. She's got this wild mane of butter-yellow curls, and these mile-long legs and violet eyes that make all the blood run to your groin. Emmett turns, noticing my distraction, and grins before sauntering over to the blond and wrapping one massive tree-trunk of an arm around her waist and winking at Esme. "Hey, Rose, I've got a new one for you. 'Do you know karate? 'Cause your body is kickin'.'" Esme laughs and smacks him, and the blond slips away from him with a roll of her eyes and a smirk of those full, pouting lips.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Em," she laughs, sashaying toward Edward and giving him a kiss on the cheek that makes him flush like a schoolboy. "Nice to see you again, squirt," she says playfully, tousling his hair like Emmett did.

"Hey, Rose," Edward replies bashfully, ducking his head.

Emmett is suddenly next to me and grins at my questioning look. "She's got this pick-up line that always gets me going, but I don't have any ammo on her—yet. She's not letting me anywhere near her britches until I like, buy her a pony or something, but we all know she's just being a tease 'cause she knows she can get away with it. No worries though; I'll find something." His grin widens and there's a determined gleam in his eyes.

"What's the pick-up line?" I ask curiously, but he shakes his head with a loud sigh that sounds a bit like the noise a train makes when it stops.

"Can't tell you, man. She'll eat my balls for stew if I do."

"Ah." She's not a match physically for Emmett's brawn, but everybody knows that sex makes the world go round, and I'm beginning to think that's especially true for Emmett.

"Out of the way, guys!" Carlisle practically runs into the room holding a giant crockpot in front of him and barely managing not to kill himself as he deposits it with a loud clang in the middle of the table. I can smell the delicious scent of roast beef coming from the pot in waves, and my mouth waters.

Esme smiles and crosses her arms at her husband's antics as she says, "I guess dinner's ready, then." Emmett lets out a whoop and all the family clambers into their sits. Carlisle sits at the head with Esme opposite him, and Alice, Emmett, and Rose take places on one side of the table while Edward and I sit on the other.

I'm not at all surprised when Carlisle smiles around the table and murmurs in that gentle voice, "Let's say Grace." He reaches out his left hand to Alice and his right to Edward, and Esme twines her fingers with my own, and before I even realize what's happening, Edward's cool hand slips into mine, his slender fingers curling against my skin, and unconsciously I tighten my grip. Everyone bows their head as Carlisle begins to pray with heartfelt sincerity, but I wait until Edward's eyes are closed before I open my own and stare at our linked hands, smooth white and weathered brown, and my lips twitch up in an uncontrollable smile. Something in the way our hands fit perfectly, the way he warms me with just this one simple touch, confuses me, but I don't want to think about hating him now. I just want to feel his hand grasping mine, and not wonder about what this means, if by some miracle I could ever come to be his friend. Because right now, it feels like we already are friends.

Carlisle lifts his head, and Edward's hand slips away, leaving me breathless and mourning the loss of his cool, calming touch. I look up to see Alice studying me from across the table, and Esme asks me if I'd like some green beans. I nod and mutter thanks, and she keeps on filling my plate with various foods until I have a small mountain steaming in front of me. When I glance over at Emmett though, he has nearly double as much as I do, so I don't feel bad about eating too much.

Carlisle is telling Esme about a patient and Alice asks me if I've ever seen a panda bear in real life. I tell her no and she starts chattering about the last time her parents took her to Japan and she got to help feed one, and I have a feeling I'm not making a very good impression on her, because the only thing I really know about panda bears is that they eat bamboo, and she's apparently on her way to becoming a world-famous zoologist. Her ivory skin is glowing and she's waving her hands around animatedly as she speaks, and in that moment she looks startlingly like Edward.

The entire table is alive with talk and laughter, and I don't know exactly what I'm doing here dining with the richest family in Forks. But somehow, even with my russet skin and all-black clothing, I feel at ease with these people. I watch Rose throw a bread roll at Emmett after he whispers something in her ear, and Esme is instructing Alice to put some more food on her plate and fretting about how her daughter is "nothing but skin and bones", and I don't feel like I need to hide or pretend. I can sit here in silence, or I can mess around and take Emmett's side in the food fight that has now officially begun between him and his girlfriend; either way, they'll accept me, and smile, and laugh at all my jokes, and a real smile will take the place of all the scowls I've become so accustomed to wearing. Which is why I don't hesitate before grabbing a bowl of croutons and handing them to Emmett with a wink even as I reach for some steamed carrots and begin my assault on Rose.

Across the table, I see Edward's eyes shining as he watches me.

~oOo~

_A/N: Special thanks as always to Number1KurtHummelFan for beta'ing so faithfully. Cheers, girl!_

_One little side-note: Jacob is his own character. What I mean by this is that I do not manipulate these characters, thus I cannot control their thoughts or beliefs or opinions. I truly don't mean to offend anyone by representing these characters' viewpoints, and their expressions are not necessarily my own. I really truly do not mean to insult anyone, and I dearly hope I haven't and won't. If I do, I sincerely apologize but I am at the mercy of my characters, as any writer knows. ;)_

_Also, I'm currently working on the next two chapters, so I'll try and have the next one up as soon as possible. Warning: *SPOILER ALERT* The sixth chapter, thanks to Jake and his horny self, is titled "Fantasies". Do with that what you will. ;)_

_Alright, I'm done, so press that little review button and show us some love!_


	4. Questions

_Title: Magnetism_

_Author: buildmeapyramid_

_Fandom: Twilight Saga_

_Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes_

_Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella_

_Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me._

_A/N: There's not much Edward in this chapter, sorry m'dears. On the bright side, though, I'm introducing a new character that I absolutely adore just 'cause she's disturbingly like myself. So watch out for that bowl of soup!_

~oOo~

4. Questions

I've met Edward twice this week since Monday. He's already got his poem picked out, but he fucking refuses to tell me what it is until _I_ find one. I almost chose one by this guy named Wordsworth, but then I remembered that you have to understand the poem, and "A Poet's Epitaph" is way beyond my reading level. Hell, I don't even know what the fuck an epitaph _is_. So I'm still stumped. And Edward's being a fucking ass about helping me too. Every time I ask him to fucking help a brother out, he starts stuttering and saying something about "outside influences". Which means I'm stuck. I don't know how to find a poem, and I don't know how to get him to help me find one.

We don't talk at all today; we stare ahead with stone faces at the teacher as he lectures, and when he's done and the bell rings, we gather our shit and don't even look at each other as we leave. I sort of thought he'd be a little friendlier, but I'm grateful that he's not. Every time he speaks I have to catch myself to keep from simply watching his face as the words leave his mouth, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle and those pale cheeks light up with color.

It's different at lunch though. Today I talk to him, because when I walk through the door, I see _her_, and it makes my steps falter and my eyes widen.

Her hair is curled, and she's wearing more makeup than I've ever seen on her—hell, I never knew she wears makeup in the first place—and she's giggling like an idiot and practically sitting on Newton's lap. Her left hand is in his hair and her right is toying with the buttons of his shirt, and Newton looks like he's in fucking heaven. I know I shouldn't be surprised—Newton's been after her since freshman year—but I've never seen her act so . . . shallow. Like being sprawled across a guy's lap is all she's ever wanted in life. She looks like a slut, and it makes me want to puke.

My nails dig into my palms as agony rips through me, and my eyes roam the room, searching for something—I don't really know what—until my gaze land on him, and I smile as I glance back at Bella. She's got her lips against Newton's ear, and she's whispering something to him, but I see her cast a burning stare at Edward as she does, and I know that stare will be on me the second I sit down. My smile widens.

I breeze past her table, pointedly ignoring her incessant giggling, and stride toward him. He looks up as I approach, and I see his eyes widen in surprise as I give him a tight smile, hiding everything I'm feeling, and slide into a seat next to him. I see passing kids crane their heads to stare at us, whispering to each other, but I square my jaw and grin at him and say, "Hey."

He swallows. "Hey."

I glance back at Bella, and she's glaring at me over Newton's shoulder, but the kid has his mouth fastened to her neck, and she can't do anything more than shoot daggers at me with her eyes. A surge of vicious satisfaction runs through me. I turn to Edward. "So, what're your plans for the weekend?" I ask, smiling a bit more as I feel her stare burning at my skin.

He seems to have struggle speaking for a moment. "I-I'm going-I'm going camping," he finally stutters, avoiding my eyes, but I'm too high off Bella's jealousy to care about his obvious discomfort.

"Oh, sounds fun," I reply, smirking. I can feel her anger from across the room. Adrenaline is pounding through my veins, and electricity is crackling along my skin, energizing me. She's _right there_. And she's angry. And it's because of me. I grin and Edward's lips part, and the movement makes me stare for a moment before I meet his eyes again, and those flecks of gold are bursting in his emerald eyes, like fireworks. I thought Bella's eyes were beautiful, but his . . .

"Jacob." The words come out in a half-sigh, and I forget how to breathe for a moment as he says my name. Everyone calls me "Jake" now; my mom was the only one to ever call me by my full name. I savor it, but I don't why. "Jacob, why are you sitting here?"

I take a deep breath, staring into his eyes, and I'm just about to answer with a carefully cheerful lie when we're both startled by the loud slam of a tray against the table. We look over to where Alice is sliding gracefully into her seat like a fucking bird without wings, and her eyebrows are up all the way as she studies the two of us. Her eyes scan me, and I don't like the knowing gleam that flickers in them when she smiles at me coolly. "What are you doing here, Jake?"

I smile back just as politely. "Just thought I'd sit with a new friend," I say, but I make the mistake of glancing once more at Bella, who's now feeding Newton with her eyes zeroed in on me, and Alice notices.

Her eyes narrow. "Why aren't you sitting next to Bella?" she asks, taking a dainty bite from her apple even as Bella lets out a loud, trilling laugh that reverberates around the room, making people pause and stare.

I swallow hard and try to smile. "She's doing just fine without me," I answer shakily, and Alice's eyes harden for a moment before she looks away and falls into silence.

We don't talk much for the next ten minutes of lunch—I attempt to ask Alice about the eating habits of giraffes, but she stubbornly ignores me. Once, Edward mentions something about the weather, but seeing as Forks doesn't have a very varied forecast, I don't really know how to reply, and we all sit there with mouths shut. It's strange being with Edward here, in school. At his house I'm comfortable, and we talk and stuff, and once or twice I crack a joke and we have a laugh together. Here though, whenever I try to have a real conversation with him, I freeze up, afraid I'll say something wrong or end up distracted by his eyes or his smile or the way the light from the window catches the gold tints in his hair. So I stay quiet, and sometimes he gives me this long look, like he wants to say something but doesn't know how, before returning my silence.

Bella's laugh draws my eye just as the bell rings and I brace myself as her gaze falls on me again. I can see it in her eyes—she's pissed. Really pissed. End-of-the-world pissed.

In my moment of distraction Edward and Alice stand to leave, and I know I can't chicken out this time and go to the Cullens' to avoid her. I've got to go home and wait for her, and lay it all out so I can figure out what the fuck we're doing. Which is why I hesitate for a moment, but take a breath and reach out a hand to stop Edward. "Um, I don't think I'll be able to come over today," I tell him awkwardly, distracted by the feel of his cotton shirt beneath my fingertips.

He studies me, moss-colored eyes narrowed in contemplation, before he nods and gives me a tiny smile. "Okay."

I take a step back and he slips past me, and my hand shakes as I lift it to tangle in my hair.

~oOo~

I hear the door bang open and angry footsteps, and I know who it is even before I hear her shrill voice shrieking down the hall. "Jacob Ephraim Black, get your fucking ass out here _now_!" she screams, and I wince when I hear the sound of shattering glass. My mouth is dry and I have no idea what I'll say when I see hear. "Jacob!" she shrieks again.

I swallow hard and try to remember how to breathe as I stand up shakily and cross over to the door. She's storming down the hall; I can hear her feet pounding against the floor with each rage-filled step, and one part of me wishes I hadn't made her angry, while another part bristles at her boldness in so freely setting foot in _my _house, acting like I'm the one who's done something wrong. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and open the door. She's standing in front of me with burning eyes, hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. "What the fuck was that about, Jake?" she yells.

I step forward, forcing her to move back as I shut the door behind me. "What the fuck are you talking about, Bella?" I growl.

"You fucking know exactly what I'm talking about, Jake!" she shrieks. I try not to flinch, but I've never seen her like this before. She's been pissed at me, yeah, but never this mindless, animal rage, like she's about to pull out a knife and attack me. I'd be lying if I said it doesn't scare the living shit out of me. "What the hell are you playing at?"

I can't let her see the struggle twisting my face, so I brush past her and move down the hall, toward the kitchen and the front door. She follows me, screaming accusations that don't even make sense, and my heart is clenching like it's trying to rope itself around an iron rod to keep from collapsing. I don't want to hurt her, but I'm fucking sick of hurting myself, and she can't expect me to just fucking sit by and watch while she makes a slut out of herself. I'll get back at her for doing this to me in any way I can, even if I still love her regardless.

"Why are you doing this, Jake?" she moans, and when I turn, my back to the kitchen entrance, I see tears streaming down her cheeks while desperate pleas for understanding glitter in her eyes. She's angry, yes, but now I can see how confused she is, how hurt, and I don't know if I can reject her, but I have to try, because I can't keep letting her use me.

I run a hand through my hair and keep my eyes averted from her, training them instead on a framed newspaper clipping hung on the wall. "You'll never want me, Bella," I finally whisper. She makes a sound of protest but I continue before she can say anything: "You'll never want me, but you keep trying to hang on to me." I shake my head. "It hurts too much to watch you with someone else, but I keep hoping that someday you'll . . ." I rub a hand over my face and ignore the pinpricks of fire that her stare is igniting on my skin, determined to tell her exactly how I feel. "You're never honest with me, Bella. You tell me you care about me, so why do you keep using me when you know how much it hurts? Why don't you fucking _tell _me I don't have a shot, instead of just letting me delude myself and hoping, always hoping—" I break off abruptly, suddenly unable to breathe with the pain that's slowly destroying me.

Her voice is cold, menacing even, when she replies, and I almost think I imagined it, only her words slice through me with vicious accuracy. "It's not my fault," she hisses, "if you don't know how to grow up and get over it, Jake."

My eyes flash up to hers and I suck in a harsh breath. I don't know what to do—my limbs are locked and I can't feel my lips. She's hurting me, she's hurting me so much—

I watch, blinded with stunned shock, as she steps directly in front of me, until I can feel the heat of her body less than a foot away. "Just back the fuck off Edward, Jake," she spits, eyes flashing ice-cold sparks, and I don't recognize her. She's not my Bella. "You owe me at least that."

I snap to life. "No, Bella, I don't owe you a fucking thing!" I roar at her, and she backs up until she's against the front door, her eyes widening in shock at my outburst. Hell, I'm surprised at myself. "I'm fucking sick of settling for friendship! I'm sick of trying so fucking hard just so you'll put up with me! I'm sick of being your back-up plan, and I'm sick of hating Edward!" I almost choke on the last word.

A tear shines in her eye for a second, and I really wish she wouldn't just start crying because then I'll crack down and let all her shit slide. So I'm surprised when her eyes harden and she hisses, "I don't give a fuck what you say, Jake. I can't just fucking watch you smile at him and laugh whenever he so much as speaks a fucking word; I don't wanna see you with him, Jake." Her back is pressed against the door and her face is twisted in an expression I never knew she could wear as she adds in a low whisper, "Don't be so fucking cruel."

I stride forward and slam my hands against the door on either side of her head, probably leaving a dent in the wood, but I don't care. I'm too busy fighting back the fury building up inside me; I'm shaking with anger, and for the first time in my life I want to hit her. I want to hit her so hard that she bleeds, and I want to make her see that she's turned into a stranger, unrecognizable in her bitterness. "Don't fucking talk to me about cruelty," I growl, spitting out the words like each one is a knife, and she flinches, cowering into the door with fear flickering in those chocolate eyes. "You can't—you don't even know what that word means." My voice is strangled with emotion, and I feel like I'm going to cry or explode or scream in rage at any moment. An animal wildness is pounding in my blood. "I'll sit next to Edward, I'll smile at him and laugh with him, I'll sleep at his house, I'll fucking hold his hand," I spit out, "if it'll teach you how fucking much it hurts to be pushed aside and kept waiting. You deserve every fucking bit of it."

She's gasping for breath, and I hate myself for putting that fear in her eyes, but I mean every word I say, and I'm not gonna back down this time. I watch her, and she watches me, and we stand like that, my body trapping her against the door, for what seems like eternity. I can feel her warm breath blowing against my shoulder and smell the scent of strawberries in her hair, and I look away, squeezing my eyes shut against the tears that threaten to fall. I'm never going to have a shot at her after this; I'm not sure if I want one. "Get out," I rasp.

Her breath hitches and I feel her fingertips ghosting along my chest, but I jerk away, putting a good five feet of distance between us. "Get out," I say again, and when I open my eyes she presses a hand to her mouth to smother a sob as she turns and flings open the door, banging it shut behind her. I hear the sound of an engine starting and squealing tires against dried mud, and I know she's gone.

I grab my keys.

~oOo~

"Jake!" Emily's eyes widen in surprise as she opens the door. "I wasn't expecting you." Her dark, shining gaze sweeps over me, and I know I probably look like a train wreck—red, puffy eyes, crazy hair, mud-covered boots and a jacket that I didn't realize until now belongs to my dad. It smells like shit.

"Sorry," I mumble, looking down at my feet and rubbing the back of my neck uncomfortably. "I didn't mean to bust in on you like this, I just—"

She cuts me off with a soft hand on my chest that warms me all the way through. "It's fine, Jake," she murmurs, smiling at me and beckoning me inside. She shuts the door behind me, and I can smell steak and some type of pie coming from the kitchen. There's Indie folk music playing on an old stereo, and I feel the warmth of a cat's lithe body winding lazily around my leg.

Emily claps and shoos the cat off. "Leave him alone, Starbucks!" she hisses, and the tabby obediently skitters away into another room. I raise an eyebrow at her and she grins and shrugs unapologetically. "So I give him a bit of decaf once in a while—sue me." I roll my eyes but don't comment and she frowns at me for a moment before wrapping her hand around my arm and leading me into the kitchen.

There's what appears to be an apple pie cooling by the window, and from the smells coming from a whistling tea kettle on the stove, I'm pretty sure she's made some of that disgusting herbal shit she adores. I wrinkle my nose and she notices and punches my arm with a light laugh. "Shut up," she says, smirking at me. I try to smile back, but it doesn't work very well. Her eyes soften and she tells me to take a seat as she crosses over to the cupboard and takes down two teacups. Shit. She's probably gonna make me drink her tea; she calls it a "stress reliever". Stress reliever, my ass. I'm having a panic attack just thinking of having to swallow that shit.

"How's Billy been?" Emily asks, stirring something in a pot as I sit down by the tiny breakfast table next to the window.

I shrug. "Same as usual," I answer, fiddling with a loose thread on my jeans.

She sighs. "I haven't seen him in a while. Tell him to come round some time; I'll feed him good."

I smile weakly. "Will do," I lie.

The kettle clinks as Emily pours two cups of her tea shit. "I need to write Sarah a letter too. I've missed talking to her." Emily's not quite into the paranormal stuff, but she likes to write letters and go to my mom's gravesite and burn them in front of her tombstone. It's sort of a tradition; she does it for her dad too. "Maybe you can come with me next time I go?" she asks.

My lips curl up in a sad smile. "Maybe," I say, but we both know I won't. I've only gone to my mom's grave once, for the burial service, and I'll never do it again.

She sets the kettle back down and moves back toward me, balancing the two steaming cups in her hands. I grimace as she sets one of them in front of me and sits down, but she glares and I obediently take a sip, managing not to gag as the scalding liquid trickles down my throat. Fucking disgusting. "So," she begins, and I look out the window and sigh, knowing exactly what she's about to ask, "you gonna tell me why you look like shit, or should I just fuck off?" I glance at her, and she's smiling a little, but her eyes are serious and sad.

I sigh again. "Just a bunch of shit with Bella, 's all," I mumble, twisting the cup in my hands. It's hot, but I don't really care; it gives me something to do.

She scowls. "That whiny bitch sniffing around again?" she asks, wrinkling her nose; she hates Bella, for a lot of reasons. "What'd she do this time?"

I hesitate before answering, and I know she notices. Emily notices everything, and it's really fucking annoying. "It's . . . kind of complicated," I say, but she rolls her eyes impatiently and glares at me.

"Jacob Black, you did _not _come all the way over here just to tell me 'it's complicated'," she says sternly. "Now spit it out, or I'm pouring you a second cup."

If that's not a threat, nothing is, so I hastily give my reply: "Edward broke up with Bella."

I hear her sharp intake of breath. "Oh," she says. It takes her a moment to add, "So what did you do?"

"I decked him." She makes a noise of sympathy. "I decked him and felt like a total jackass, and then I got suspended for three days." I rub a hand over my face and take a sip of my cooling tea shit even though I know it tastes like zebra piss, because I'm ready to try anything just to get a bit of peace in my mind. "Then this week I went to his house because I got partnered with him in English, and Emily"—I'm rambling but I don't care anymore, it just feels so fucking good to _talk _and know I won't be judged—"I don't hate him. I tried but I can't anymore. And now Bella's acting so different and I want to hate him for changing her like that, but I'm sick of trying." I'm gasping for breath by the time I'm done, but I'm not crying, which I'm proud of. I don't want anyone to see me cry.

I feel her hand slide over mine, and when I look up she's got this look on her face, this tenderness melting the darkness of her eyes. She looks like an Indian doll, with a worn tan cotton face and black yarn for hair and black button eyes. It makes me want to hug her and hold her and let her warmth comfort me, but I haven't hugged anyone for years, except Bella. "Jake," she begins, but then she pauses and shakes her head a little. "Jake, hating someone is never worth effort." She smiles a tiny smile and her fingers draw patterns on my hand. "If hating him hurts you, you have to let it go." I let out a shuddering breath as she adds quietly, "It's not worth trying for."

I look away from her eyes out the window at the swaying trees and watch the wind writhe and twist through the grass as my cup of tea grows cold.

~oOo~

Emily lets me sleep in her guest bedroom. It's tiny and cramped, and I have a feeling she keeps the litter box in here, but there's a window by the bed that's jammed open a bit, so I can smell pine and ocean and fresh earth every time I take a breath. My mom used to take me up here to the cliffs and if the wind wasn't blowing and it wasn't raining, we'd lie on our backs and watch the clouds move across the sky, and she'd tell me old stories about our ancestors. Whenever I think of her, I remember this smell, and something in me aches because of it, but the scent coming from the window soothes me, and my eyes slide shut into sleep.

I wake up the next morning, and it's not raining, but the clouds are darker and I know bad weather's coming. Emily left sausage and toast on the table, and I pop into her sewing room to say good morning. She's partially covered by a mass of half-stitched fabric swirling with different shades of red and blue, and she looks tired, but her smile is happy. I warm up the sausage and eat the toast cold, switching on the tiny kitchen TV and watching the news for a few minutes before I shut it off again and wander around the house. I don't want to go back home yet. Emily won't mind if I stay the night again, but I don't want to hide out here all weekend, so I know I have to go back sometime today.

I stare outside the window for a while at the tops of the trees swaying and shivering in the March winds, and then I step outside, breathing in the cold, salty air and feeling it rifle through my hair. I shiver because I'm only wearing my boxers and a T-shirt, and go back inside.

There's tons of pictures all over the walls. Emily's into all that photography arts and crafts shit, so a lot of them are close-ups of tulips and trees and stuff like that, but there's also ones with faces. My dad when he was a kid, in a fishing boat with my granddad and a huge bass hanging from his hand. Emily's cousin, Leah, leaning against the front of an old car, smirking and tilting her head so her waist-length black hair fell over her shoulder. My mom with her arms weighed down by a blanketed baby, her smile practically leaping out of the frame. My dad in one of those hideous '90s jogging suits, running down the sidewalk and waving at the picture-taker with a cheeky grin.

I don't run very often. I'd rather ride my bike. But today, I need to get away, to feel the wind against my skin and taste the ocean air, and my bike isn't exactly fit for remote cliff-side trails. So Emily lets me borrow a pair of Sam's sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and I head out for the cliffs. The wind howls and beats against me, trying to push me back toward the house, but I keep going, and soon I'm jogging around the rim of the forest, following an old trail that runs along the jagged cliffs. It's rough, but it calms me, even with the hissing and spitting of the waves below me and the angry groans of the harsh winds. I don't think, I just move, and the steady pace keeps my breath shallow and my heart pounding and my blood pumping. Because now all I can hear is nature colliding and grieving, and I don't have to have the answers. I don't _need_ the answers anymore.

I just need to breathe.

And let go.

And forget.

~oOo~

_A/N: Oh, I'm snazzy! Check me out, updating all quick-like! I think this means I deserve some love, so get off your lazy asses and review!_


	5. Walls

_Title: Magnetism_

_Author: buildmeapyramid_

_Fandom: Twilight Saga_

_Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes_

_Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella_

_Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me. I also don't own the poem "Life and Art" by Emma Lazarus, so you got nothin' on me, bitch. ;)_

_A/N: Wow, thanks for all the lovely reviews, and thanks to all those who alerted and favorited as well. All of you are as beloved as beansprouts to me. ;) This chapter is sort of short, but never fear, I've got big plans for Chapter 6 (did I mention it's titled "Fantasies"?), which I hope will meet all your expectations. If not, well, my middle finger is still in prime condition. Also, a poem by Emma Lazarus is feature in this poem, and the meaning is—at least to me—very much dependent on the reader, so Edward's and Jacob's opinions on it are not necessarily accurate. Just thought I'd point that out before you lecture me on the theme and message of the piece. Enjoy!_

~oOo~

5. Walls

A crash jolts me awake, and I crack my eyes open, stiffening under the covers as I hear the sounds of muffled cursing. It's dark in my room and I trip twice when I clamber from the bed and shuffle out into the hall. The slivers of moonlight shining through the windows cast ghost-like silver shadows across the pictures hanging from the walls, but only turn the carpet a pale gray. There's just enough light for me to see a dark figure slumped against the door, and I hear a muffled curse just as I realize in my half-asleep state exactly who it is.

"You okay, Dad?" I ask, and he only groans in response. That's when I notice the shape of a bottle in his hand.

Oh.

I trudge forward, determinedly ignoring the stench of cheap alcohol and sweat that surrounds him, and put one arm around him, lifting him even as he makes a weak attempt to push me away, cussing and nearly killing us both as he raises his empty bottle and waves it frantically in the air like he's trying to make an SOS. "Need another one," he mutters to himself as I drag him toward his room at the end of the hall.

I shake my head "no" but don't actually say anything, afraid I'll set him off. He likes to freak out over everything when he's drunk. And it's really fucking annoying when he does it. I'm surprised he's not putting up a fuss as I half-carry him through the door, and he sighs against my shoulder, leaning into my side until I stagger from his weight. Somehow I manage to get him on his bed, but I'm not about to undress him, so I throw a blanket over him and slip out the door and into my bedroom before I hear him begin to make noise. Whining and moaning like he's in agony, but I know from experience that he's half-asleep and he wants a drink, but he won't get one. He'll fall over the second he tries to walk.

I climb back in bed and pull the covers up around my ears, but through the wall that separates us I can hear his stifled groans and curses. And then he starts to talk. "Sarah," he moans loudly into the silence. I shudder and squeeze my eyes shut. "Sarah, please!" he begs. "Please come back! Sarah!" His voice is rising to a shout, and my breath is coming out in short pants as I fight back tears that I refuse to cry. "Sarah, why did you leave me?" he sobs brokenly, and there's a crash as he knocks something—perhaps his lamp—to the floor.

I'm frozen under the sheets, trying to find it in me to get out of bed and go calm him down, maybe give him some sleeping pills. But I'm a coward. I don't want to see his wild, tear-filled eyes as he cries out for my dead mother; I don't want to feel his hands clutching and beating against my chest, trying to push me away even as he tries to hold on. I want to pretend he's not there, and I'm lying alone and at peace, and nothing bad will ever come.

So I cradle my head in my hands and hold back the tears and tell myself I'm fine, because it's the only thing that will calm the uneasy clenching of my stomach.

I lie myself to sleep.

~oOo~

Edward's eyes widen as they meet mine, and I scowl, wishing I'd just skipped and slept in. I toss my bag on the table and clamber into my seat, and I can feel his eyes warming me. "Are-are you okay?" he asks softly, and that voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. God, I _am_ tired.

I nod and keep my eyes trained on the board and try not to fall asleep, and he doesn't say anything else. At least, not for a while. Mr. Garrison has his back to the class as he writes something on the board, when Edward looks up from his notes for the first time in minutes, leans toward me, and whispers, "Will you come to my house this afternoon?"

I shrug a bit, but my throat becomes instantly dry at the invitation, and I nod before putting my head in my arms to block everything out. I want to sleep. I got some shut-eye last night, but when I woke up this morning I felt like I hadn't slept for days, and I briefly considered crawling back into bed. But then a stray image of Edward sitting at our table in English by himself, his bronze head bent over his notes, flashed through my mind, and for some reason the picture made me uneasy, so I climbed onto my Harley and managed to get to school without crashing.

I don't know how much longer I can go before I end up fucking collapsing from exhaustion, but one thing's for sure: this weekend, I'm taking a really long fucking nap. And I'm locking my door to keep out Bella, my dad, and any random fucker who decides he'd like to snoop around.

Speaking of the she-devil, I can feel her stare burning into my back, but when I glance at Edward his soothing green eyes are on me, and I have the insane thought that his eyes are like Aloe Vera. Always so cool and comforting, like they can relieve pain or something. That's a load of shit, but it makes me smile in my sleep-deprived state, which makes him smile, and then we're both smiling for absolutely no fucking reason, but I'm too tired to care when the kid with an afro gives us a weird look. I'll kick _his _ass later. Right now I don't have the energy or the motivation with Edward's Aloe Vera eyes on me.

Soon, though, he looks away—back to his notes—and I do my best to take a nap, but I can never sleep really well on tables like this—they're hard and smell like shit—so for the most part I just sit there with my head in my arms and ignore everything and everyone around me. Including him. Edward.

At the end of class I dragged myself out of my seat, anxious to get to second period where the desks are practically custom-made for weary heads to rest on, only to be stopped by Edward's soft voice. "Four o'clock?" he asks hopefully.

I half-turn, and he's staring fixedly at the ground, shoulders hunched as though dreading my answer. It bothers me when he does that, so I force my eyes to open all the way and I give him my best smile. "Yeah, absolutely," I say. I think I did a pretty good job injecting some enthusiasm into my tone, but when I see a flicker of uncertain green irises, I know he probably sees straight through my attempt at cheerfulness. I smile at him and he smiles back weakly, and I turn my back and walk out the door, feeling his eyes on my back.

Aloe Vera eyes. I smirk and shake my head. It's official—I'm crazy.

For the rest of the day I sleep through most of my classes. All my teachers know from experience not to mess with me—well, except for this bitch substitute in Spanish who keeps me busy by sending me on errands like her little bus boy. I'm pretty sure she only does it so she can stare at my ass whenever I leave the room, but I'm not into that shit, and quite frankly, she looks like an Over-the-Hill hooker. I don't know how you get away with wearing a backless shirt and thigh-high leather boots on the job.

When I get home I want nothing more than to grab some food and crash, but in my sleep-deprived stupor I told Edward I'd come over, and I'll never be able to sleep with devastated emerald eyes bouncing around my head, haunting me. So instead of crawling onto my bed, I take a quick shower and brush my teeth so at least look decent compared to the flawless Cullens that reside in the mansion in the forest, before climbing back on my Harley and setting off for the edge of town.

It's not raining, but there's heavy gray clouds hovering over Forks, and I know it'll probably be pouring in a few hours. How the fuck is anyone supposed to get their daily dose of Vitamin D around here when the sun never fucking shows itself?

Twenty minutes later I'm chugging into the Cullens' driveway and parking next to the old, weathered oak that can protect my bike from whatever Mother Nature throws its way, and knocking on the front door.

Esme answers, and her smile could fucking blind me with its brightness. How does she wake up every day with all this goddamned enthusiasm? "Jacob!" she exclaims, her eyes lighting up like fucking Christmas in March, and I try not to scowl. I'll feel horrible if I do. "Come on in! Edward's expecting you, he's upstairs." Her smile widens impossibly and she reaches out and pats me on the cheek as I step inside. She winks at me and bounds off with way too much energy for someone past forty, calling over her shoulder, "If you'd like to stay the night, that's perfectly fine with me." I smile after her, partly because the light in her smile warms my insides, but mostly because she's crazy for thinking I'd willingly spend the night under the roof of the same guy who broke Bella's heart. Even if I'm through with her, I still don't think I can completely forgive Edward for doing what he did.

I slip off my shoes and head upstairs, trying like I usually do not to make any noise as I ghost down the hall toward his bedroom. The door is cracked open, and when I peek inside, I see him curled up on his bed with lamplight washing over his face and messy bronze hair as he reads a thin little mint-colored book with pursed lips and serious eyes that make me want to smile and stare at him for hours. Part of me is jealous that he can lose himself like that, just dive head-first into a book and find peace. I never really understood how you could just drown yourself in words and not get bored after a while. I don't want to just sit and think and imagine about adventures and happy endings and great shit like that; I want to go out and find my happiness, find answers and adventures and new ways to get drunk off life. I don't want to lay in bed and read about it.

But looking at him, looking at the way his eyes shine and his fingers caress each page he turns, I want to read over his shoulder. I want to find out what's so spectacular about the words. I want to know what thoughts are turning in his head. I'd spend days pouring over every single letter in that book if it would make me understand why his mouth is curling at the corners, the way his eyes smolder and glow as they scan the page, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips as he reads with almost greedy fervor. The need to know chokes me, makes a lump form in my throat.

I swallow hard and take a deep breath, studying him for a moment longer before putting my hand on the door and pushing it open. He looks up, bronze curls falling into his eyes before he impatiently brushes them away and smiles at me as that ever-present flush glows in his cheeks. "Hey," is all he says, his voice soft and slightly rough, raising goosebumps on my skin.

I smile back shakily and slip through the door, shutting it behind me as he gazes up at me with slightly parted lips, his eyes dancing and making something in me ache. "Hey," I say back.

He points toward his laptop on the floor by the bay window where the chaise lounge is. "If you wanna go ahead and get started, I have a poem search engine up," he tells me quietly, and his lashes sweep down before he raises his eyes to mine once more. "Just type in a topic, and hopefully you'll find one you like."

I groan and roll my eyes at him. "Dude, you can't help me out a little bit with this? I've got no fu-I've got no clue what poem to pick," I say, barely avoiding swearing. He always gets this fidgety look in his eyes when I curse.

He grins shyly and shakes his head, that wild bronze hair tumbling forward to hang in his eyes again, making him look rumpled and boyish. If his hair looks like that _now_, I wonder what he'd look like after sex—. I clear my throat, disturbed by my line of thought, and he bites his lip before saying, "You've got to do this on your own. If I help you, we'd be cheating."

The words slip out before I can think better of them. "What, you've never cheated?"

Shit. Now he's gonna launch into a lecture on how cheating is a horrendous offense and all that other shit that teachers preach at the beginning of every year in an attempt to scare kids into not copying off each other.

But instead, all he does is frown and say, "No. Cheating is wrong." His eyes look reproachful and I look away, determined to ignore the nagging feeling of regret for my many wrongdoings curling in my stomach.

"Oh," is all I say, and without another word I cross over to his laptop and practically sprawl onto the leather chaise, sinking into the plump leather cushion and sighing. God, just like this. I could sleep for days, and this isn't even a bed, just a couch or something. I can't imagine what sleeping on his bed would be like. I make a face against the leather at that thought, determined not to even _try _imagining that, because the thought of a night in his bed—even without him in it—is just plain weird.

We don't talk for what seems like hours. He curls up in a ball on his bed and goes back to his book, and I type whatever word comes to mind into the little search bar, scanning endless results for anything that I think I could even begin to understand, but nothing stands out. Eventually, frustration wins and I shut the laptop, wanting to just sink into the couch and fall asleep, so I tap my fingers against the soft leather and glance around the room, searching for something to occupy my interest, something to keep my eyes open. Eventually my gaze falls on him, and against my better judgment, I tell myself it'll at least keep me awake and ask, "What're you reading?" I shift, propping myself up on my elbows in an effort to keep myself awake.

He looks up, eyes slightly widened in surprise at my question, lamplight turning his skin a pale shade of gold. "Um, it's a poetry collection," he answers slowly.

"What poem are you reading then?"

He sits up and smiles shyly, a hint of his usual blush rising in his cheeks. I try not to concentrate on the uneven thudding of my heart when his teeth peek out and bite down on his bottom lip. "It's called 'Life and Art' by Emma Lazarus," he says.

I smirk a bit at the title. "What's it about?" I ask.

His brows knit together in an adorable frown of concentration, even though I'll never admit out loud than anything about him is _adorable_. I scowl a bit, and when he looks up his eyes widen in surprise at my expression, and something in me clenches. I relax and smile, and so does he, obvious relief flickering in his eyes for a moment before he looks back down at his book. "I-I couldn't say anything concrete about it, really," he finally answers, glancing up at me from underneath those absurdly long lashes of his that fan out against his smooth white cheeks.

I cock an eyebrow and try not to yawn as my eyes droop. I'm so fucking tired, and it's all I can do not to collapse. "What do you mean?"

He hesitates for a minute before replying, "It's sort of hard to explain." I wait and he fidgets as he continues softly, "It's less about the actual words, but the way they fit together, the mood they create. When I read it, it feels desperate and passionate, like the poet is chasing impossibilities." Those dark, shining evergreen eyes meet mine, and I swallow as my heart plummets in my chest as I listen to his voice, the way his words tumble over each other in his shy enthusiasm.

"Read it," I whisper, and when those eyes study me I force myself not to look away, to meet his gaze. Words are rising in my throat, about to spill from my lips, but with his eyes on mine I can't think clearly enough to understand what I want to tell him, and I bite down on my lip to hold the words back.

He nods. "Okay." I take a deep, shaky breath and shift so that I'm lying on my side, curling into the lounge as a weighty tiredness makes my eyes droop and my lips part in a sigh. He begins quietly, repressed passion mounting with each verse, and I begin to understand what he means about the mood of the words as he murmurs:

_Not while the fever of the blood is strong,_

_The heart throbs loud, the eyes are veiled, no less_

_With passion than with tears, the Muse shall bless_

_The poet-sould to help and soothe with song._

_Not then she bids his trembling lips express _

_The aching gladness, the voluptuous pain. _

_Life is his poem then; flesh, sense, and brain _

_One full-stringed lyre attuned to happiness._

I have no idea what the fuck the poem's actually about, but the way his voice rises and softens, the way each word whispers its own little magic in my ear, I feel everything he described. Despair. Passion. A fruitless chase. It makes me want to run and laugh and live while I can, to seize every opportunity and not let myself think about tomorrow. But with each gentle word I feel myself relaxing and slipping under, my eyes fluttering closed, my breath slowing, my heart easing into a soft, steady thrum that matches the rhythm of his voice.

_But when the dream is done, the pulses fail, _

_The day's illusion, with the day's sun set, _

_He, lonely in the twilight, sees the pale _

_Divine Consoler, featured like Regret, _

_Enter and clasp his hand and kiss his brow. _

_Then his lips open to sing-as mine do now._

He stops and my eyes crack open, immediately missing the music of his words. "More," I whisper, and his gaze flashes to mine for a moment before he looks back at his book and obediently turns the page and starts to read again. His voice breathes the words like a chanted lullaby, and I close my eyes and sigh, letting my head fall back against the arm of the couch. I vaguely remember my mom singing some old tunes to me at night, but this is better. His silk-laced words are paving the road to sleep, and I can't do anything more than relax and listen. He's trapping me in poetry, drowning me in it, and a small smile flickers across my lips as I sink into the couch and into sleep.

I'm woken what seems like moments later by Edward's murmured words mere inches away from me. I have no idea what he just said, so I tell myself I imagined it and try to drift away again. "Jacob?" I hear him whisper, and I jolt, my eyes snapping open.

His face is glowing in the lamplight, the green of his eyes impossibly bright against his pale skin. Strands of gold-tinted hair hang in his face, and the color reminds me of a penny on fire. I smile because he looks so perfect like this, light glancing off his skin and his eyes soft as they meet mine, and I don't bother to hide my contentment, because I'm too tired and relaxed and it's so easy to forget everything else when I'm lying here on his couch while surrounded by his scent, honey and something sweeter—roses, maybe, or strawberries. Yeah, that's it. Strawberries. Strawberries and cream. Strawberry shortcake. He's making my mouth water, and I wonder if I should drag myself off his couch and go home, but I'm so _tired _and he's smiling at me so sweetly, and I can't bring myself to move an inch. So I stay, and I nod a bit when he asks shyly, "You wanna just stay here tonight?"

And just as I feel my eyes sliding shut into sleep, I see those tender green eyes meet mine, and I know that whether I like it or not, the walls between us are breaking down.

~oOo~

_A/N: Okay, so in advance I apologize for any delays that could occur in this story. RL sucks some serious ass, but its call must be answered. At the moment, I'm busy as fuck between classes, staying sane, practicing social skills, attempting to write a full-length novel along with a full-length movie script, and obsessing over fanfiction, so my time is ridiculously limited. Bear with me, if you please. I will do my utmost best to update often, but I can't make any promises. Thanks for being so supportive regardless._

_Oh, and don't forget! I think I've mentioned that I'll be posting an outtake in Edward's POV on my LiveJournal after I put up Chapter 6. I'll put the link on my profile, but read the chapter before you read the outtake; otherwise it won't make a lick of sense._

_There's one more little thing I want to clarify in case of any confusion. Okay, two things. Well, kind of more like one and a half. Just go with it. Here it is: Jacob, Bella, and Edward are all juniors in this story, so Jacob isn't like a year younger than Bella and Edward. Just thought I'd clear that up in case you were curious._

_Last thing, I promise (good lord, this is a long A/N): thanks to Starry on LJ for recc'ing this fic. That sort of made my day, so you're a hot bowl of chili in my book, m'dear!_

_Okay, I'm done, so either go on your merry way or drop a review to boost my ego! (Readers who choose Option B get an ice cream cone with a poem-reading Edward on top!)_


	6. Fantasies

_Title: Magnetism_

_Author: buildmeapyramid_

_Fandom: Twilight Saga_

_Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes_

_Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella_

_Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me._

_A/N: Thanks for the wonderful response to the last chapter. I'm truly humbled by everyone's support of my little fic, and I'm still shocked that I haven't gotten flamed yet. It makes me grin like an idiot whenever I see a new review telling me I've done well._

_I'm completely shocked that I finished this so soon; I thought it'd take at least a week, and when I did finish it I briefly considered waiting to update for a few days just 'cause I'm a bitch like that. But you know I love you guys too much for that, so here I am, a flabbergasted fluffernutter with nothing better to do than write hot Jakeward sexy times. Oops! I think I just gave it away. Oh well, I guess that'll stand as my warning. *Cheshire grin* Slashy lovin' ahead, so steer clear of you'd rather not read the dirty deets. Aaand now, without further ado, here is Chapter 6._

~oOo~

6. Fantasies

_Bella smirks, twining the fingers of her left hand in my hair. "So you're not getting laid tonight, huh?" she purrs against my neck, her slightly slurred words sending tingling vibrations across my skin. I never knew it was possible to become rock-hard in less than five seconds._

_"That's the plan," I tell her, trying but failing to keep my voice steady as her other hand trails down my thigh. I look around to see if anyone is watching, but most of the rez kids are already halfway toward dry humping on whatever spare patch of ground they can find around the bonfire._

_"S'not a very good plan," she breathes against the corner of my jaw. Christ, she's wasted. I know I'd never take advantage of her like this, but my resolve wavers when she starts pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive spot just below my ear, her tongue darting out to wet the skin there. Her strawberry-scented tresses are brushing against my overheated skin, and I inhale as deeply as I possibly can, resisting the urge to fist my hands in her hair and pull her body flush against mine and just _breathe_._

_Fuck._

_She giggles against my neck, and I realize I must've said it aloud._

_"Maybe I can get you to change your mind?" She says it as a question, but I'm pretty sure we both know how very easily I can be persuaded if she keeps doing that thing with her mouth._

_When I feel a slender finger trace a light, teasing pattern across my groin, I can't hold back the strangled groan that's been building in my throat, and she laughs again, her breath on my face heavy with the smell of cheap beer and that artificial banana gum she chews all the time. I can practically taste her in the air._

_Her fingers clench in my hair, forcing my head back as she shifts without warning, and suddenly she's straddling my lap and dragging that hot, wet mouth down my throat. I want to stop her—really, I do—but her tongue is flicking and lapping so expertly at my neck until I'm biting my lip hard enough to draw blood just to keep from screaming her name, and her right hand is pressing more firmly against my cock, teasing me with lazy circular motions and random patterns. I nearly cum in my jeans when she moans in my ear, her voice low and throaty and hot as fuck as she murmurs, "You're so _hard_."_

_That's when I feel it—a cool breath against the back of my neck. I moan, not knowing why, but Bella seems to like it, and she bites down on my shoulder, making me gasp as my head falls to the side. My hands are resting on her waist, my thumbs touching the thin strip of smooth skin between the bottom of her shirt and her jeans, and I reach around her, grabbing her ass and heaving her closer until she's grinding against me, her hand trapped between us, causing just the right amount of friction to make me nearly incoherent. I can feel someone's cold lips brushing against my hair, and that touch alone is almost too much for me to bear. Bella is whispering positively wicked things against my throat, but by now all I can think about is those soft lips trailing across the nape of my neck, sharp teeth nibbling against the sensitive skin there. I have no idea who's behind me, but I can feel ice-cold zaps of electricity sizzling through my blood wherever this person touches me, and Bella is nearly forgotten in the pleasure of those cool lips gliding across my neck._

_I want to push Bella back against the forest floor and take her hard and fast, but more than that I want to bask in the magic of the quick, fleeting kisses across my neck and shoulders. Each touch of those lips has my grip on Bella's waist slackening, and instead I attempt to press myself back, seeking out every light brush of that cool, wonderful mouth against my skin. I feel hands on my hips, slim but too large to be Bella's, kneading my sides as teasing kisses float across my shoulders, making me shiver and moan and lean back, trying to get closer._

_"Jacob," Bella groans, but I can't feel her hands against me anymore, can't smell the scent of her flushed skin. I'm lost in those light kisses, those lips dancing across my neck and hair, slender hands toying with the waistline of my jeans. I feel a cool breath blow across my ear and I can't do more than moan as those hands drift forward, closer to the place where I want—where I need—them to be._

_Bella is gone. Every single fucking thing has disappeared from my mind except cool lips and waltzing fingers. My hips buck when those fingers glide down to brush against my inner thighs, barely missing my cock. I bite my lip but a strangled cry escapes me and I feel rather than hear a chuckle against my shoulder. "Please," I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut as those fingers trace patterns along my thighs. So close, so fucking close—_

_I can't hold back my groan when finally, _finally _I feel fingertips graze my cock, nearly making me cum just from the single, teasing touch. I whimper, fingers clawing at the dirt on either side of me as I try to raise my hips, seeking more of that perfect friction. No one has touched me like this, made me so desperate for release, made my head fall back and cry after cry fall from my lips from just the fleeting brushes of magic fingers against me and the thought of how hard I'll cum when those fingers wrap around my length. I'm not going to last long, but I don't give a fuck right now. I just-I just _need_ more._

_I whisper it out loud but that light, tormenting touch doesn't falter or quicken, so I say it again, over and over like a mantra as my eyes roll back in my head from the delicious torture. "More, please," I beg shamelessly, and another brush of cool, soft lips against my neck has me groaning and panting and pleading with animalistic passion breaking my words. I can't take much more, God, just one touch, that's all I need—_

_"God!" I cry out, not caring who hears, when those fingers sweep up my cock, leaving me shivering and panting and needing whatever I can get. It's so much, it's nearly too much, it's just enough— "Please," I whimper, mindless in my need for anything, whatever my tormentor is willing to give. I'll take it willing, just so long as those fingers don't leave my cock. I fruitlessly buck my ups up toward those perfect fingers, but they only dance away, brushing lower to caress underneath my throbbing shaft. I'm moaning and digging my hands into the earth, my breathing harsh and fast as icy breath on my ear sends shivers across my skin and slender fingers tease me._

_I feel a laugh ripple down the side of my neck, and a soft voice lower than I expected whispers in my ear, "Beg me."_

_"Mm, fuck!" I moan as those fingers chase across my thigh, carefully avoiding my cock, and I don't care if the whole fucking world hears me as I cry out for more. "Please, please, I'll do anything!" I practically whine and cool lips brush my ear lobe, sending shockwaves through my entire body._

_"Anything?" the soft voice asks. There's something off about that voice; it's rough, deep. I'm too distracted to hold on to the errant thought, though, and instead I press forward, pushing my hips down to those fingers, biting my lip until I taste blood. Teeth nip sharply at my jaw and I groan._

_"Anything," I gasp out, and another too-low chuckle sends shivers through my body and makes me moan again. I didn't make this much fucking noise the day I was born._

_But even as I make the resolution to keep quieter, a hand grasps my cock firmly, and I shove my mouth against my shoulder to muffle my shriek. Cool breath skates along my jaw, and hands tease my length as sharp teeth drag down my throat. I angle my head back and buck my hips, desperate for more, and those hands speed up in their movements, stroking me harder with each passing moment until I'm certain I'll pass out from all the blood rushing to my dick. I pant out shameless pleas, arching my back as each touch makes me bite my lip to hold back my screams._

_Fingers caress me, wrap around me, squeeze and stroke, setting a perfect rhythm that has me writhing on the forest floor, flames licking through my blood as I fight the urge to grab those hands and hold them to me. I'm gasping, clenching my fingers in the dirt as my mouth falls open and all sorts of noises fall from my lips with abandon. I'm close, so close—_

_"Do you want to cum?" a husky whisper that sounds familiar and foreign at the same time sounds in my ear, and I moan and nod as those fingers twist up, tracing along the ridge of my cock, making me dizzy._

_"Please," I gasp, and that breezy laugh reverberates against my neck, cool lips brushing against the back of my neck. Fingers stroke perfectly, sending delicious waves of almost unbearable pleasure through me, and I want to collapse and claw at those hands to give me release and fucking cum already. I'm so very close, but something keeps me from falling over the edge._

_At least until I hear that voice, too low and throaty but still hot as fuck, murmur in my ear, "Then cum for me, baby."_

_So I do. I cum loudly, practically screaming my release as those slender fingers bring me to peak. All I can feel is soft, tender hands and cool breath against my neck as I shudder and groan through my orgasm, panting and trembling and babbling nonsense. After what seems like eternity, I come back down, gasping for breath, and when I feel lips brushing against my jaw, I turn my head to meet the eyes of my pleasurer. Green eyes._

His _eyes._

Fuck.

My eyes flash open and my body freezes, my fingers tightening impossibly into the flannel blanket that was tossed over me sometime during the night. For a second, I don't breathe or think, because those eyes are forever etched in my memory. In reality, Edward has never looked at me like that, with hooded, lust-glazed eyes. I've never even thought about him under the covers. Fuck, I used to call him "Virgin-Ass Cullen"—I still do sometimes.

I take a shaky breath and twist my head to the side, expecting to see his form curled up underneath his ice-blue comforter, not to see him stretched out on the floor a few feet away with a plaid blanket tangled around his pajama-clad legs, one arm thrown across his forehead, the position stretching his shirt taut against his abdomen and allowing a strip of flawless, muscled white skin to peek out from under the hem. I swallow hard and tear my eyes away from that bit of skin, terrified by the way my body is responding to him. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I try to sit up, but a twinge of discomfort makes me pause, and when I look down at my crotch, my eyes probably bulge out of my head. Holy fuck, did I actually—

Yeah, I must have, because now there's a spot the size of Texas staining my jeans. "Fuck," I hiss, and Edward shifts next to me. I look over in time to see his lashes fluttering and I'm on my feet by the time moss-colored eyes greet the new day.

"G'morning," he mumbles sleepily, an adorable little smile stretching across his face as he yawns and stretches, raising his arms above his head and widening the gap between the hem of his shirt and the waistline of his jeans even further. I choke on air and stagger back a few feet, my heart pounding. What if he notices—

"I-I gotta go," I gasp, turning so he won't see the front of my jeans.

"But—why?" he asks in confusion. I can barely hear him; there's a buzzing noise in my head and all I can see is fiery green eyes and long, dark lashes brushing against alabaster cheeks. I couldn't have cum more than ten minutes ago, but I'm already half-hard again from just the thought of his hands touching me, his cool breath blowing against my neck, and I can't let Edward see.

"Just—I just gotta go!" I say again, and I'm out the door before he can protest again.

I think he might try to go after me, so I speed up as much as I can without making a shit-ton of noise, and I stuff on my shoes in record time before flying out the door and onto my bike. It's really uncomfortable straddling the seat with jizz drying in my jeans, but I square my jaw and suck it up as I rev the engine and speed out of there, ignoring the nauseous feeling in my stomach that's telling me to go back. I can't imagine what he's thinking of me right now; I'm not even sure I want to know.

So instead, because I'm not stupid enough to even try to think of something completely unrelated to the past night, I think about the dream.

There was a bonfire party on the rez during our sophomore year, I remember. I took Bella with me; it was her first time in the woods since her dad is convinced that enormous wolves stalk the forest separating Forks from the reservation. He's cool, but really imaginative when it comes to ways in which his daughter could get hurt. He never found out that she went with me that night, but I'll never forget. It was the first time we got drunk together, and the first time I realized I loved her. We sat together on a log a little ways from the fire while rez kids and a few locals swayed and moved around the flames, laughing and drinking and kissing and grinding in a wild, pagan dance of young, sweating bodies and lust-filled eyes. I stared at Bella while she stared at the partiers, and I watched the way those eyes turned to dark chocolate and she licked her lips, leaning forward as the passion-fueled flames lit up her face, setting her on fire. She was so beautiful, so fucking breathtaking that it made my heart ache and I grabbed her hand. She didn't protest as I pulled her to me, instead pressing her body against mine, her fingers skimming over my shoulders as she moved with me perfectly. How long we danced I can't remember, but when I woke up the next morning lying beside her on a blanket laid out on the dew-covered grass in the abandoned clearing, the ashes from the bonfire still smoking, I knew it would never be enough to have her as a friend. I wanted her to be my everything.

The rain starts to fall again, and my house is empty, so I make a split-second decision and turn around, heading toward the cliffs again. Emily won't be home yet—she'll still be working her shift at the shop—but I know she won't mind me staying here tonight. She never does. But she'll ask questions. I'm not sure if I can handle questions right now. I sure as hell don't have any answers.

Seconds after I pull into the driveway, though, I hear my phone ring and I close my eyes as my heart stutters in its pace. Only five people have my number: Emily, Leah, Quil, Bella, and . . . Edward.

I know who it is, who it has to be, but I check anyway, only to see his name flashing across my skin. What the fuck ever inspired me to give him my number anyway? He only wanted it so he could get a hold of me about our project, but he's never called or even texted me before, so what's the point? I stare at the screen for what seems like forever before I get up the nerve to answer. I'll brush it off, come up with a believable excuse, but I can't let him go on thinking whatever he's convinced himself of. Bella always assumes the worst. If I don't answer her calls after more than a day, there's a chance she'll tell Charlie I'm missing or something. She's a worrywart like that.

I hold the phone to my ear, listening to the faint sound of his breathing for a moment before I whisper, "Hey."

"Hey," he whispers back. He sounds broken.

There's a stretch of silence, and I can hear every soft, hushed puff of air he lets out, making me remember what it felt like to have that cool breath blowing against my neck, ten times more pleasurable than any touch could ever be. I shudder and almost miss it when he murmurs hoarsely, "If you want me to hang up, I will."

The offer hangs in the air for a moment while I digest it, and when it sinks in panic gnaws at me. "No," I answer, "don't hang up."

"Okay." He's clearly relieved, and so am I. Hearing his voice soothes me.

I sigh. "Edward," I say softly, cradling the phone in my hand to better hear his steady, slow breathing. "Edward, I'm sorry, I just—"

"Don't explain," he says abruptly. I could swear his voice just broke.

"Okay," I say.

I can practically see him run a shaky hand through the bronzed chaos of his hair as he murmurs, "You're not coming over today, are you?"

I shake my head even though he can't see and answer quietly, "No."

He sighs. "That's fine."

I completely ignore the rain that's begun to fall, and instead listen to his gentle breathing. It's like music, each exhalation chasing the next, and I wonder what it would be like to see those breaths frosting the winter air, making miniature clouds of dissipating ice that billow into the air. I want to see him bundled up in a warm woolen coat with a scarf tied around his ears, eyes the color of Christmas trees sparkling from above pink, wind-chapped cheeks as he smiles at me with pearly-white teeth. An ache I never knew I could feel is stirring inside me, and I take a shaky breath before whispering, "I'll see you on Monday, okay?" My heart plummets at the thought of seeing him again.

"Tuesday," he says. "It's supposed to be sunny on Monday, so we're going hiking."

"Oh." I'm relieved and disappointed all at once. "Tuesday then."

"Tuesday," he repeats.

"Bye, Edward," I whisper, but he's already hung up.

Tears threaten to fall from my eyes before I blink them away, slipping my phone back into my pocket and moving my Harley under the eaves of the garage. It's raining harder now, and I quickly grab the key from its nail on the backside of the shutter and slip into the dry warmth of the house. It smells like cats and green apples, familiar and homey, but it's not comforting me right now. My mom treated me and my dad like shit, but I always feel better when I'm on the cliffs she used to love; I feel close enough to touch her, close enough to feel her warmth and pretend that she was a perfect mom that I could confide in without fear.

So I slip out of my wet clothes and borrow some of Sam's—he never minds it when I borrow his stuff, thankfully—and put on at least two sweatshirts and a raincoat before trudging back outside again and heading for the rocks. It doesn't take me long to get there, and I huddle at the base of an old tree that deflects most of the rain with its thick, sweeping branches. The waves are crashing below, groaning and shrieking and beating against the rocks. When I was a kid I was scared to come here. I was always certain those waves were monsters that were trying to reach up and pull me down to drown me. My mom didn't care about my fears; she dragged me to the cliffs and distracted me with her fevered eyes as she talked. She talked about a lot of things on the cliffs. About old Quileute legends and scary stories, about her times playing in the forest and summers spent cliff-diving, about the many bones she'd broken falling from trees, about the pranks she pulled on her sisters. More than anything, though, she talked about my dad. How they met, how they fell in love, how everything fell apart when I was born. She talked like she would to a sympathetic best friend, not her terrified five-year-old son. She scared me with her stories, but still I listened. I clung to every word, and I didn't protest when she took me to the cliffs. It gave me a chance to be with her, and more than anything I wanted to be with my mother. I was desperate for any bit of attention she gave to me.

I close my eyes and rest my head against the damp base of the tree, not caring if my ass is drenched in mud. "What's wrong with me?" I whisper.

There's no answer.

I'm scared. I'm more scared than I was of my mother and her stories. I'm scared because I don't know what to do anymore. That dream . . . No one has ever touched me like that. To think that I can get hard from _his _touch, from _his _breath against my skin, feels wrong and right and strange, and I can't forget how it felt, how _good _it felt. Amazing. Like his fingers were made to touch me. I wish I'd touched him in the dream. I want to know what it feels like to run my hands across his skin, drag my nails down his arms, press my lips to his pulse. I don't know why I want to do those things, but I _do _want to. And I can't deny that.

I need to take a step back and figure it out. I need to ignore it and pretend like nothing is wrong, act like I'm the same untouchable asshole that never gets hurt, never gets scared.

But something is swirling inside me, something I don't understand. And as I sit here on the cliff overlooking the angry waves below, I wonder why Edward, of all people, is the person I'm most afraid of.

~oOo~

_A/N: Okay, so tell me, was it good? *waits anxiously* Believe me, it was just . . . mind-blowing in my head, but I wanna hear your opinion, if you please. Be gentle though; I'm a delicate flower. ;)_

_Reviewers get ice cream cones with sexy Edward fantasies on top._

_P.S. I almost forgot! I'll be posting all future outtakes and extras on FF as well under the title "Fridge Magnets". Don't ask about the title. Just . . . don't. I'll still post them on my LJ account too, the link to which is on my profile, but you'll have the option of viewing them here instead as well. So just go to my profile and click on Fridge Magnets or the link, and voila! Enjoy yourselves and thanks for reading!_


	7. Touches

_Title: Magnetism_

_Author: buildmeapyramid_

_Fandom: Twilight Saga_

_Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes_

_Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella_

_Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me._

_Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to the victims of this past week's storms in the South of the U.S. Many people I know personally have lost their homes and sometimes even family members because of the tornadoes. It's amazing how people come together after tragedies like this to help each other and pull through the bad times. My thoughts and prayers are with everyone affected by the storms. This one's for you guys!_

_A/N: Thanks to my pre-readers for being such f-tastic ladies! And wow, I can't believe it! Six chapters in and I had over 100 reviews! All of you who have read, reviewed, recommended, and put this story on alert and favorites, I want to thank you so much for your love and support. You can't imagine how red my cheeks get whenever I read a compliment or see the number of hits. It's really amazing because I never thought this fic would get much attention. All of you guys are amazing! Virtual hugs and kisses for all!_

~oOo~

7. Touches

I've been having that dream every night since Friday, always the same—beginning with Bella's body moving against mine, and ending with an explosive orgasm and moss-green eyes. And every time, I wake up with either a stain on my crotch or a painful hard-on. But I haven't touched myself. I can't, because it would seem like I'm admitting that the dream turns me on. That Edward turns me on. I'd be admitting that I can't get past the thought of his hands on me, caressing me, making me cum harder than I've ever cum in my entire life. And I can't admit that. No matter what, I _cannot _give in to those dreams, cannot let myself acknowledge what the mere thought of his touch does to me.

So I don't touch myself.

Even though I _really _want to.

Instead I pointedly ignore my throbbing dick on Monday morning, shoving on a pair of jeans and tying my shaggy mane of hair back into a ponytail, and hop on my Harley. Well, not _hop_, exactly. More like drag myself onto.

Edward isn't at school today, and I'm grateful for it. It's the first sunny day in weeks, and in celebration I drive to school without my standard black hoodie on, opting instead for an old black tee that Bella used to say makes me look like sex on legs. I smirk at the memory, but the expression only lasts for a moment when I think about her straddling Newton in the cafeteria, painted with makeup and pretending to enjoy herself but staring at Edward the entire time. My heart clenches with that too-familiar ache, and for the rest of the ride to school I barely notice the sunshine warming my skin. I almost miss the rain today. After weeks of clouds and fresh mud, the sun seems like a foreigner, a violating presence to make me feel even more uncomfortable when I step through the front entrance and into the bustling halls.

It's the last week before Spring Break, so all the kids are way more energetic than anyone has a right to be at fucking eight in the morning. I'm the only one not trapped in a crowd of giggling girls or back-slapping guys, and that's only because everybody at this school is terrified of me. For a second—just a second, though—I sort of wish I had someone to greet me when I get to school, someone to smile at and walk with to classes.

I don't bother dropping by my locker. With Edward gone hiking with his family I won't have anyone to copy off of, and I'm tired from staying awake all night trying to ignore my dick saluting me from underneath the covers. Plus, I probably don't remember the combination.

When I walk into English and take my seat, the table feels off balance, lopsided, without Edward next to me. It makes me uncomfortable not feeling the calming coolness of his skin radiating over me, setting me at ease and making me fidget at the same time. It bothers me that I feel anxious without him at my side, that his absence makes me agitated. That I sort of . . . _miss_ him.

I scowl. I do _not_ miss Edward fucking Cullen, of all people. He's completely naïve and well-meaning, and his parents are saints, and he's never been anything but kind to me, but he broke up with Bella for no reason other than not having "the right feelings". I still don't know what the fuck he meant, but I don't think I can let go of the way he so easily gave up the girl that I fought for every day since I met her. Like he's entitled to everything, and she was just an experiment, just a little trial-and-error on the side.

The bell rings, jarring me from my little self-reminders, and I look up in time to see Bella dance through the door, her face a little paler than usual and fingers laced with none other than Mike fucking Newton. I think I'm gonna be sick—

"Okay, guys!" Mr. Garrison says loudly, clapping his hands together like we're a bunch of dogs he's trying to get the attention of. I resist the powerful urge to roll my eyes. "Now, first, how's the project coming?"

A few kids say various versions of, "Good," and Mr. Garrison beams at us as though it's the greatest moment of his life. Which, come to think of it, it could be. He doesn't look like he gets out much, so who knows?

For the next forty-five minutes I lay my head in my arms trying to wish away a headache and my poor neglected semi. It's the first time this morning I haven't been painfully hard, but the instant I think of the reason behind my ever-present erection, I'm back to adjusting myself and damning whatever deity decided to give guys so much fucking testosterone. Can't I ever be completely free of a boner? I mean, Jesus fucking Christ, I don't know if I'll be able to walk like this. And crawling is not an option. Jacob Black does not crawl. Ever.

I'll go to the nurse. That's perfect. I'll tell her I'm about to spew chunks and she'll write me a pass home, and I'll lay in bed for the rest of the day pouring all my energy into focusing on non-sexual thoughts. It'll be hard to ignore my not-so-little soldier, but I'll manage. And I won't give a single fucking thought to that fucking dream.

I'll be honest, I don't really give a fuck what other people do on their own time. If a guy wants to fuck another guy, sure, it may make me wrinkle my nose a bit, but I'm not gonna go freak out like some homophobic moron. Because really, I can't be bothered to care as long as a guy doesn't try to get in my pants. I just don't swing that way.

But that dream . . . It almost makes me wonder if I _could _swing that way. I mean, it was just . . . _God_, the way he touched me. Like he knew exactly what to do, exactly how to bring me to the very edge and keep me there. I like to be dominant, I like rough and rowdy, I like a girl to beg for it. But after that fucking dream, I wonder what it's like to be underneath, to arch my back and feel hands molding against my skin, to surrender to pleasure instead of trying to snare it. I want to know how it feels. And I want to know why it turns me on to even think about it. And I want to know why it's _him_, of all people, who made me question myself.

Why does an erotic fantasy of Edward, the ex-boyfriend of the girl I want more than anything, make me hard?

I swallow and burrow deeper into my arms, furiously ignoring my erection and the burn of Bella's eyes on my back. I want to scream. I want to hit something. I want to go home and cry and work on my Rabbit and pretend that none of this is happening. Pretend that Bella and I are still best friends, pretend that I still hate Edward Cullen, pretend that my dad isn't a drunk and my mother didn't run away and get herself killed by her dealer. I want to pretend that everything is fine. But I don't think I can anymore. I don't want to lie myself to sleep every night. I want to know what it's like to be really loved, to feel that fire race along my skin with every tender touch. I thought I felt that with Bella, but this . . . In that dream I felt consumed in heat, like I was in a full body suit of those icy-hot bandage things in the commercials. I felt like magnetism was pulling me towards his touch, toward those light, dancing fingers and cool breaths. And I want to feel it again. I want to be sure it wasn't just the dream, just a bizarre one-time thing that's designed to freak me out and make me jump whenever a leaf drops.

But how the fuck can I do that when the only way to find out is to do it again. The last thing I'm gonna do is make a move on _Edward_. At least not sober. Or unless he made a move first. But what the fuck would he do that for? He's _straight_. He fucking dated Bella! And I'm pretty sure he wasn't using her as a beard. Edward's too nice and saintly for that shit. If he really was into guys—not that he is—I'd bet my ass he'd come right out and say it, like the fucking good little boy he tries to be.

I tell myself all of this over and over again, trying to stay calm and get my hard-on to die down. And I'm so distracted by the thoughts whirling like a tornado through my head, that I almost don't hear the bell ring and the sounds of kids shuffling out the door. I lift my head reluctantly and grab my shit before stalking toward the door, but just as I slip into the hall, I feel a brush of fingers against my hip, and I look down to see a crumpled-up piece of paper sticking out of my pocket. My eyes flash up and I catch a glimpse of mahogany hair before the mass of students swallows her into their midst, and I'm left standing by the door with a frown of confusion.

I unfold the paper and I have to squint to read it. Whoever wrote it was definitely in a hurry.

_Meet me in the theater._

_-B_

My heart sinks and I think I might actually have to go to the nurse because I think I'm going to vomit. I don't want to talk to Bella, or be tempted into forgiving her and letting all her shit slide, but I can't just ignore her. She's ridiculously stubborn, and she's gonna bug the shit out of me until I hear her out. I know what she's going to say, and I think she knows I know too, but she'll try anyway and pull out all the stops in an effort to get me back. I used to love how hard-headed she is, how straight-forward and persistent, but now all it does is make me want to crawl in a hole and wait for her to leave me alone.

"Might as well get it over with," I mutter to myself, and I shove the note back in my pocket as I walk down the hall toward the theater.

It's in the middle of the school, and since the drama department at this school is just plain pathetic, it hasn't had much use in the past decade. When I slip inside the air smells musty, like a funeral parlor, and I'm pretty sure it hasn't been dusted in here for at least five years. It's almost too dark to see, so I paw around the wall in search of the switch, and when I find it, the dull glow of the lights reveals all the dust motes floating around like shattered gold, and there she is, standing less than ten feet away in the middle of the aisle.

"Hey, Jake." Her arms are wrapped around her middle, her head bowed and her shoulders hunched.

"What do you want, Bella?" I growl.

She flinches at the menace in my voice, and I hate myself. "Jake . . ." She shakes her head before lifting her eyes, arms tightening around herself as her shoulders shake for a moment before she takes a deep breath and says very slowly, "I don't—" She falters, taking a deep gulp of air as her curtain of hair falls to hang around her face, a stark contrast against the ivory of her skin.

I tense at her hesitation. "What do you _want_?"

She cringes away from me, one arm lifting to press across her breast like she did that fateful day she came to my house and told me Edward broke up with her. "Please, I need—" She bites her lip and I hate the way my heart clenches at the ache in her slow words. "Can't we just . . . ?" She trails off, head bowing down even further.

I shake my head, disgusted with myself for wanting to cave, wanting to hold her and comfort her. I can't do it anymore, I remind myself. I can't let myself be used. "No."

She looks up, eyes clouded with pain. "I miss you, Jake. You're my best friend."

"Not anymore."

With three quick steps she's in front of me, hands hovering just inches from my chest as she asks, "Why not, Jake? Why do you keep pushing me away?" Her bottom lip quivers and I can feel the heat of her fingers branding me as she brushes them against my shoulders.

"It hurts, Bells." The old nickname slips from my lips without thought, and her rich eyes are glassy with tears I know she's holding back. "It just . . . It _hurts _to be your friend."

"I'll do better," she pleads, hands clutching at the front of my shirt as the tears spill over and slide down those pale, hollowed cheeks. She looks broken, like a doll thrown aside to collect dust, and it hurts me to see her like this. "I promise, Jake, I'll—"

"Bella . . ." I sigh and my hand strays against my better judgment to wipe the wetness from her reddening eyes.

"I'll forget all about Edward," she vows, and I can see the desperate fever in her eyes as she moves closer until our bodies are nearly touching. Why didn't she want me this much before? "I'll break it off with Mike. I'll hold your hand and kiss you. I'll be whoever you want me to be—everything you want me to be. Just _please_, Jake, don't leave me!"

"Bella, stop—" God, why can't I just turn my back and walk away? Why does it still hurt so much?

"I can't lose you, Jake!" she sobs against my chest. God, I want to hold her so much. I want to smooth her hair and dry her eyes and tell her I forgive her, that everything's okay. But I can't, because the second I do that she'll be back to what she was doing before. Pining over Edward and completely ignoring how desperately in love with her I am even though I don't want to be anymore. It hurts too much to love her.

So I let out a harsh breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding, and try to move away, try to escape from the comfort of her arms and the sound of her tears, but she holds on, refusing to let go of me. "Just give me a chance!" she begs, hands fisting in my shirt as I try to untangle myself from her grip. Chocolate eyes melt me when I look down at her tear-streaked face, and she ducks her head into the crook of my neck, her breath warming and chilling me all at the same time. "Please, Jake," she says again. "I-I love you." She says it like a question.

I smile to keep from crying and press my face into her hair, taking one last whiff of that mouthwatering strawberry scent before I lean down until my lips are against her ear and whisper, "Liar."

I turn, trying to keep my shoulders from shaking as I walk away, because when I call her out for lying, she doesn't even bother to deny it.

She doesn't say a word.

~oOo~

Emily's not home. I try not to be mad at her—she's probably in Port Angeles buying more supplies for her shop—but I don't feel like sitting in her cat-infested house by myself with only fluffy, cranky, self-licking animals for company. I want an actual person to talk to, a shoulder to cry on—figuratively speaking, of course, since I don't cry in front of people. Especially people I know.

There's Sam, I guess. He's cool. Of course, he's a cop and right now he's on duty, so he could be anywhere in Forks right now. Plus, he's gonna be pissed at me for skipping school. No bro-to-bro with him, then.

Quil or Embry. They used to be my best friends, but Quil doesn't know the first thing about chicks—his last serious relationship was with the blown-up poster of Megan Fox on his bedroom wall—and Embry's parents are moving constantly, so he could be in Japan and a different time zone right now. Guess not.

Paul's an ass; the only reason I talk to him in the first place is because he works at Emily's shop for reasons I still don't understand. The last time he saw Bella, he told her she had great tits but her ass was a bit bony. Since I decked him for it, he's always trying to pick a fight with me.

Seth. He's still a kid, barely out of middle school, a naïve little freshman boy that loves video games and pizza. How the fuck is he supposed to help me with my problems? Leah, then? She might work. She's in college and she knows what unrequited love feels like. Even with Sam happily engaged to her cousin, she just can't let go of him. She'll understand, and even though she'll throw in a bunch of sarcasm, she'll listen to me and she won't judge.

I dial the number on my phone as I lean against my bike parked in front of Emily's house. It goes straight to voicemail.

"_Hey, I'm too busy to give a shit about talking on the phone right now, so leave a message and quit calling me before I pulverize your ass. Have a nice day!_" I scowl. Then again she's a bitch on good days, and an utter nightmare on bad days, so maybe I'm better off not talking to her.

That leaves one person though. I chew on my bottom lip, running through my list of potential friends who'll listen to me, but no one is coming up except him. His name is like a neon sign in my head, flashing like a billboard in front of my eyes.

My scowl deepens and I pocket my phone. I'm not calling him. That won't fix it. I need to talk to somebody who's going to be completely objective, and there's no fucking way Edward's going to be objective about Bella. He _did _date her for three months before he threw her to the dogs—or Mike, in this case. I'm not calling him. Absolutely not. I climb onto my Harley and ignore the burning urge to dial his number, to hear his soothing voice on the other line.

I'm not calling him.

I'm not calling him.

I'm not calling him.

I repeat it like a mantra in my head all the way home, and by the time I pull up to the house and lug my bike under the shelter of the eaves, I'm muttering it under my breath over and over, a steady rhythm of words that keeps me from thinking too hard about anything, including Bella or the dream or my ever-present erection or Edward.

Edward. Jesus, I want to call him so fucking bad. I want to hear him speak in that soft, compassionate voice, telling me that it's okay, that I don't need to worry. My hands are shaking when I push the door open.

I drop my bag on the floor, not caring where it lands, and trudge into the kitchen in search of some food. For a while I manage to ignore the thoughts hammering at my head, instead focusing on eating a sandwich and some chips and chugging down a can of soda that makes my stomach churn. I don't mind the queasiness, though. It keeps my mind off things, off him.

After a while, however, I'm up again, wandering the halls, cleaning, going outside to work on my Rabbit, but nothing is working. Nothing is distracting me like it should. All I can think about is the phone in my pocket, pressing against my thigh as though begging me to flip it open and dial in the number.

"It's not gonna help," I chant over and over to myself. I'm lying—it _will _help, at least to make me feel better—but I've got to keep telling myself that. I need to stay a safe distance from Edward. He broke up with Bella, and even though I'm done with her, I can't forgive him for everything. I need to hold on to this sliver of hate; it used to keep me from floundering, from wondering what the hell to do with myself. Hating Edward Cullen gave me purpose when Bella was dating him. But now, all it's doing is making me miserable.

~oOo~

It's two o'clock in the morning and I'm in bed. In nothing but boxers. And I'm hard. Ever since I got into bed I've been taking off layer after layer of clothing, first my socks, then my shirt, and then my pants, until finally I'm flat on my back, boxer-clad and aching for some sort of action down south. The windows are open and a light breeze is bouncing around my room, but I'm still so fucking hot. It hasn't been even five minutes since I woke after the dream, but this time it was more intense—if that's even possible. His breath against my neck, the words he murmured in my ear, his mouth dragging across my jaw, his _hands_ teasing me beyond imagining, stroking, pulling, twisting and making me groan as darkened green eyes met mine. It was like he was trying to provoke a response from me—not the usual kind, either.

Though I'm pretty sure I'm responding. I'm painfully hard, and my hand is shaking with the effort to keep from reaching down and finding relief by myself. Because I need it. The dream left me trembling and so fucking _close_ to cumming, and I need release. Desperately.

I glance at the clock. Ten minutes after two. He's not awake. There's no way he's awake. I doubt he's ever stayed up past eleven, especially not on a school night. He can't be awake.

"Don't," I tell myself. "You can't call him, fucker. He's asleep and you're horny and it's a horrible idea." But right now it doesn't seem like a horrible idea. I've never had phone sex before, something I really need to change, and if I'm really quiet and I think of something to say that'll get him talking for a while, I can jerk off to the sound of his voice without him even realizing it.

"It's wrong," I chant, shifting so that my legs are slightly bent at the knee, feet flat on the mattress. "Don't do it."

But my hand reaches for the phone. And I dial his number.

Immediately I start to panic. Shit. What if he answers? What if he _doesn't _answer? God, I sound like a chick. I feel like one too. All insecure and fluttering nerves. My heart is pounding and I feel like my mattress should be soaked from all my sweat, and I think I might faint, because just the _thought _of his voice on the other end is making all the blood rush straight to my dick, leaving me light-headed and dizzy.

Answer.

Don't answer.

Why isn't he answering?

Thank God, he's not answering. Now I can hang up and—

"Hello?"

I nearly fly straight off my bed. "Jesus fucking Christ, you scared me!" I gasp. There's a moment of silence on the other end and once I realize what I just said I feel heat rising up my neck. Great, now he thinks I'm crazy. I think I am crazy. I feel crazy. Like I'm about to explode or implode or do something involving a "plode". Just that one word he's spoken has me nearly on the edge of a mind-blowing orgasm. Something is seriously wrong with me. "S-sorry," I say, and my breathing is ridiculously loud.

It's quiet for a moment before I hear that beautiful, beautiful voice whisper sleepily, "Are you okay, Jacob?" God, he said my name. I shiver. Say it again, say it again, say it— "Hello?" he asks.

I nearly drop the phone. "N-no, I'm here, sorry, hey," I stutter out. God, I sound like an idiot. A moron. A loser. A fucking dork with nothing better to do than call people at two in the morning when all I really wanna do is jerk off.

"Oh, okay. Hey." I hear him yawn. It's adorable. "What're you doing?"

"Lying in bed. You?" I press the phone closer to my ear, eager to hear that delicious voice.

"Same." He yawns again. I try but fail to keep from grinning. I need help.

Silence. Now what do I say? Why did I fucking call him in the first place? I can fucking jerk off on my own, I don't need assistance. I've had plenty of practice. Why the fuck did I have to call him?

"Um, so . . ." I can practically see the hesitation in his eyes, the mouthwatering way he bites his lip. His lips are so full, such a rich shade of pink, like someone stained them with raspberries. He might even taste like them—"Why did you call? Is something wrong?"

I want to tell him about Bella. Should I? Wouldn't that be awkward, talking to him about her, his ex-girlfriend? No, I can't. It would be beyond awkward. Ultra-awkward. Mega-awkward. I can't say anything about Bella. We've steered completely clear of that particular giant pink elephant, and I'm not going to ruin whatever semblance of peace we've got between us. I swallow. "No, nothing's wrong," I whisper.

His confusion is obvious even before he speaks. "Then . . . why did you call?" he asks.

I bite my lip. Now what'll I tell him? That I was planning on jerking off to the sound of his voice on the other end of the phone? That sounds stupid now. Really stupid. I can't do that. It'd be wrong. Like watching a porn video of him or looking at his nude pictures. Hmmm, nude pictures . . . "Uh—um, I-I—" Christ, I'm borderline incoherent.

"Jacob?" His voice is so gentle and low and soft and perfect. My own personal lullaby. I bet he sings like an angel.

I shudder and my eyes slide closed. "Yeah?" I whisper.

He yawns again, this time more loudly. "I really don't mean to be rude, but I've been hiking up a mountain all day. It's two in the morning and I'm exhausted. Could we talk tomorrow at school?" He sounds worried, like I'm gonna be furious because he wants to go back to sleep. I'm not furious. I should've known better than to call at fucking two in the morning, plus it's probably better that we hang up before I make an even bigger embarrassment of myself. I'm still disappointed though.

"Okay," I sigh reluctantly. My cock throbs in protest.

"Good night, Jacob." He's already half-asleep again. His words are slurring together.

"Good night, Edward." The line goes dead and I let the phone fall onto the pillow beside me as my hand twitches toward my cock.

In freshman physics I was taught about magnetism. How it's created by opposite forces, positive and negative, working together and creating a spark. It feels like that with him, with Edward. A spark. A magnetism. And I don't want to deny it right now. Tomorrow I'll wake up and I'll hate myself for giving in, for letting that dream—letting _him_, the person I've always claimed to loathe with a passion—get to me. But right now, with the night air kissing my skin as the wind sashays through the window and around my dark room, I think of his lips, of his satin skin and forest eyes and magic hands.

And my hand slides down under the sheets.

And I close my eyes.

And I surrender.

~oOo~

_A/N: Yeah, I know. *ducks head in shame* There was sooo much Bella in here it's absolutely disgusting. Please forgive me! She irritates me like you wouldn't believe with her incessant demands to put in her five cents' worth, but what can I do? Character trumps author every time. I am a victim. Pity me._

_Anywho, a new character is being introduced in the next chapter and I'm really excited! Care to take a guess as to who it is?_

_Reviewers get sugar-sweet Edward lollipops!_


	8. Friends

_Title: Magnetism_

_Author: buildmeapyramid_

_Fandom: Twilight Saga_

_Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes_

_Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella_

_Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me._

_A/N: Took me a while to update, I know. Sorry about that. Hopefully with summer in full swing I'll find more time, but sometimes RL has to come first, so I'm not gonna make any promises._

_I know a lot of you are interested in more of Edward's perspective, and I'm planning on taking a break sometime and just writing from his POV, although I'm not sure if I'll publish it. Hell, there's a good possibility that after this story is finished I'll just rewrite the whole thing from Edward's POV. Who knows?_

_This chapter has a lot of emotional meaning to me because I have personal experience with a woman like Sarah Black. I know firsthand the effects abusive and neglectful parents can have on their children, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone._

~oOo~

8. Friends

When I walk into the classroom and see him, I'm completely overwhelmed. Partly because guilt for thinking about _him _while jerking off is gnawing at me, but mostly because he looks so fucking perfect sitting there next to the window, pale sunshine making his bronze hair glow brilliantly. He's leaning forward, head tilted to the side with one hand cradling his cheek, eyes staring down at the table and lips parted. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from sighing and take my seat next to him. He doesn't move, and I can feel the charge in the air between us, the magnetic pull that crackles along my skin with every rise-and-fall movement of his chest as he breathes.

My cock springs to life and I swallow the self-loathing that rises in my throat. Why the fuck do I have to feel guilty? I've jacked off thinking about Bella at least once a day for the past two years and never felt bad about it. All guys do it, right? But Edward's got this superpower ability to make me feel guilty for every single fucking thing I've ever done wrong. He makes me want to be better, to try harder, whereas Bella just gave up and accepted my shit. He makes me want to change even as he accepts me unconditionally. He doesn't judge me—he's never judged anyone—he just gets this sad look on his face whenever I treat him like shit or call him names. Of course, I haven't done that in a while, and the light that shines in his rainforest eyes tempts me to never do it again. Whenever I'm around him, I want to find some way to make him proud of me, to make me . . . worthy of him. He inspires me to do better, and no one's ever motivated me like that before. Not even Bella. He makes me want to run and breathe and _hope _that there's still a chance for me to be happy.

"_Don't bother, Jacob._" Her voice chuckles in my ear, the sound like a fading echo in a cave. Hollow. "_Nobody's ever gonna want you, especially not me. So don't bother getting your hopes up_."

A knock on the door distracts me, and I look up as Mr. Garrison moves to open it. I feel rather than see Edward look up to.

A boy steps inside, one hand grasping a yellow slip of paper, the other holding a worn black backpack with the letters "JLC" embroidered in white across the strap. He's pretty average looking, I guess. Light brown hair, faded jeans and a weathered tan. Short but sturdy, with hints of muscle rippling underneath his loose blue T-shirt. He's got this sort of roughed-up look about him—a few streaks of dirt on his shirt, a smattering of barely visible freckles, a few scrapes on his hands and neck, some rips in his jeans. But what makes me stare are his eyes. They're a hazelnut brown from what I can see, topped by thin, arched brows with a few laugh lines at the corners, and they almost look . . . _hungry_. He scans the room with an almost predatory intensity, a fevered look of focus glimmering in his gaze, and when I meet his eyes, the world fucking stops and I know he's no good. Those eyes are the eyes of an animal.

And it's not the first time I've seen that look.

I look away from him, trying to choke back the memories, but they keep coming, smothering me, making me hands clench in my lap and my eyes blur.

"_Someday I'm gonna jump off these cliffs, Jacob, and if I'm lucky I'll fly. Like Peter Pan. Right off to Neverland_." I hear her voice pounding through my mind, deafening me as the new guy introduces himself.

"I'm James Campbell. I'm from Michigan, I play soccer and baseball, and I'm seventeen years old." He grins and Mr. Garrison gestures for him to sit down. I vaguely notice the shuffling of books and out of the corner of my eye see James take a seat at the table next to Bella's. They're only a few feet apart.

"_Why did I have to have you, Jacob? Things were perfect, and now I have a son. You ruined it, Jacob. You ruin everything._" Her dreamy voice, whispering in my ear. I can almost see her fevered black eyes as she rocks back and forth, arms wrapped around herself and tangled black hair lying limp about her face, staring out onto the unforgiving gray waves.

"How's everyone's projects coming?" Mr. Garrison nearly bounces on his feet with excitement at the few agreeable nods he receives in response.

"_I hate you, Billy! Why couldn't you let me get rid of him? I can't do this anymore!_" Shrill screams and a muffled slap reach my covered ears as I cower behind the kitchen counter, sobbing as quietly as I can so she won't hear me. Won't see me. "_Get the fuck away from me, you bastard! I didn't want him, I don't want him_—" Broken sobs replace the screams and I cry harder. I don't know what I did wrong. I don't know how I can fix it. But my mommy is crying. I made Mommy cry. I don't want her to cry.

"Make sure you get it done before class on Friday, guys. It's worth a test grade!" I dimly hear Mr. Garrison call above the rising murmurs of the class, hear the scratch of Edward's pen as he doodles in his notes.

Edward.

"_He's yours, I don't want him! I never wanted him, do you fucking hear me?_" A crash, glass shattering, pounding footsteps in the hall. I burrow under the covers and tuck my face into the pillow. "_I hate you, I hate him, I hate this goddamned house and I can't— . . ._" The distant rumble of thunder, the patter of rain on the roof. A car door slamming. Tires squealing and a heavy thud. My dad screaming a name over and over and over.

Edward. Look at Edward.

"_I wish you'd never been born, Jacob! I hate you!_" Tears falling onto my cheeks, warmed with the red marks of angry hands. They mingle with my own tears as fingers claw through the air, lashing at me. A voice, shouting for her to stop, strong arms wrapped around a struggling body, soothing hands stroking my face, my hair, telling me she didn't mean it, she never means it.

Don't think about it. Edward. Look at Edward. He'll make it go away.

"_Die, please, Jacob. I want you to die._" Burning, wild eyes, ashes rekindled sparking at me from a tear-streaked face. "_Don't you want to do what Mommy wants?_"

Edward.

I swallow and unclench my hands as I lift my head. He's looking at me. Worried eyes the color of summer leaves swimming in my vision.

"Jacob? Jacob, are you okay?" A light, cool hand is on my shoulder and I want to shake it away because I know who it belongs to, but I can't. It's too comforting. I can feel the calm sinking into my body just from that soft touch, and my heart stumbles and slows its beat.

"F-fine," I whisper.

The hand slides down to my arm. I want to chain that hand to my skin so I'll never lose this feeling of peace, like everything's going to work out, everything's going to have a happily-ever-after ending and I won't hurt anymore. "Are you sure?" he murmurs.

I nod even though I'd rather just shake my head so he won't drop his hand. His touch lingers even when he draws away after a moment, and I nearly whimper at the loss, but settle for a barely audible sigh instead.

For the rest of the class I sit with my head in my arms, staring at the grains of the wooden table and purposefully blocking out every thought even remotely related to my mother. I won't think about her. I _can't _think about her. If I do, the nightmares will come back.

Edward stands before I do when the bell rings, and I want to reach out and stop him with my hand, but I'm afraid of what the feel of his cool warmth will do to me, so instead I call out, "Am I coming to your house today?" My voice sounds ridiculously hopeful.

He stops and half-turns, his green eyes meeting mine. I can see strange emotions battling in those eyes, and I can't even begin to name them. Confusion, maybe, or grief. I can't tell. All I know is, when our gazes lock, I feel like he's cutting straight through me, like he's trying not to look _at _me. I frown as he nods once, very slowly, and strides away before I can stop him again.

I want to follow him but I don't dare, so I grab my things and head toward my next class, berating myself all the way for the way I've treated him. Maybe if I'd been a little nicer to him, he wouldn't tremble every time he sees me, wouldn't look into my eyes like doing so is the bravest thing he's ever done. Maybe then he'd talk to me, smile at me more often, and the worried furrow of his brow wouldn't mar his face anymore. I want to make him smile. God, do I want to.

~oOo~

The drive to the Cullens' is quiet. The road is empty, the wind is cold and the clouds are dark. And when the rain starts to fall, tapping at my helmeted head in a vain effort to blind me, Edward isn't there to save me from my memories. I see glimpses of my mother's ash-colored eyes flickering in my vision and I recognize her scent in the sweet fragrance of the rain and the rich smell of pine and wet wood. She's surrounding me, smothering me, and I can't get away.

_I'm four years old, seated on my mother's lap as we wait for Auntie Em to arrive. She promised we would go on a picnic today. I've never been on a picnic with Mommy. I can't wait. Mommy hums an old song on my ear, rocking me from side to side and squirming, her eyes darting around nervously. I don't think I've ever sat in her lap before, unless she was spanking me. But Daddy says she won't spank me anymore, so she hasn't in a long time._

_Mommy sets me down really fast when she sees Auntie Em's car, and I wish I could make her smile like she's smiling now. But I smile too, because Mommy's really pretty when she smiles. So pretty I forget how white her face gets when she's angry, how cold her voice is when she whispers things in my ear at night, how much it hurts when she hits me with her hand._

"_Emily!" she calls, waving at Auntie as she runs toward the old blue truck, still smiling._

_Auntie Em's face peeps out from behind the car door as she gets out, and she's grinning and laughing as she hugs Mommy, her warm black eyes meeting mine over my mommy's shoulder. I smile at her and she smiles back, but she looks tired and sad. I wonder what's wrong. "Hey, Sarah!" she says as she pulls away, grabbing Mommy's hand as she walks toward me. "I haven't seen you in weeks."_

_Mommy shrugs. "Been busy," she says, but Auntie Em doesn't answer. She reaches out and lifts me in her arms instead, swinging me around. I laugh and squeal and wrap my arms around her neck, my legs flying out as she twirls._

"_How're you, little man?" she laughs as she puts me down._

_I look at Mommy for a second, but she's looking away, toward the cliffs. I swallow and look back at Auntie Em and smile. "Good," I say._

_Auntie Em looks at Mommy too, and she looks sad when she smiles at me and takes my hand. "Why don't we go inside? I've got some leftover oatmeal cookies if you want some."_

_I nod and she opens the door, but I feel Mommy's arms around me and suddenly I'm in the air. "No," I hear her say and I shake when thunder claps in the sky. I hate thunder. "We're going on a picnic, remember?"_

"_Sarah, what—" Auntie Em reaches out to her but Mommy moves away, lifting me so my legs are wrapped around her waist. I can see Mommy's glowing eyes, so black and wild, as she shakes her head. Rain starts falling, and I can feel the cold drops sliding across my skin, making me shiver._

"_I promised Jacob I'd take him on a picnic," Mommy says softly, and she sets me down and grabs my hand, pulling me with her as she runs toward the cliffs. I don't know how we're supposed to have a picnic without food or a blanket, but I don't want to make Mommy upset, so I follow her and don't say a word. Auntie Em calls after us but Mommy doesn't listen. She drags me farther and farther away, into the woods. Branches hit my face and legs and her hand is holding mine too tightly, and I try not to cry, but I'm scared. Mommy mutters things to herself, strange things that I don't understand, but I don't think I want to understand, because when her eyes start to glow like that she says scary things._

_I stumble after her and we break out of the trees. We're standing on the cliffs, wind and rain roaring in my ears, drops falling in my eyes, and I can hear the big ocean beating on the rocks below us. It's trying to get us, eat us maybe. I cry harder but Mommy doesn't care. She stands on the edge of the cliff and laughs, her black hair wet around her face as she looks back at me and smiles. "Come here, Jacob," she sings._

_I don't want to come. I don't want to go near those waves. But Mommy asked me too and I don't want to make her angry, so I walk forward slowly until I'm standing beside her. I feel her cold hand on my shoulder and she pushes me in front of her. My feet are on the very edge of the cliff; another inch and I'll fall into the ocean. I scream and sob as the rain groans and the water hisses, but Mommy laughs and tells me not to be afraid. "I think dying would be fun," she says. "Wanna try, Jacob, or should I go first?"_

_I shake my head and close my eyes so I won't see the waves. "Mommy, no," I beg._

_Auntie Em's voice reaches us and I cry harder. "Sarah, what are you doing? Sarah, stop!"_

_She laughs and wraps her arms around my shoulders, her hot breath on my neck as she whispers, "Where's the food, Jacob? We can't have a picnic without food." She nudges me forward just a bit, and I scream._

"_No! Daddy, help!" Mommy's scaring me. She's gonna push me—_

"_Sarah, stop!" I hear Auntie's voice again and it sounds closer. I'm so cold. "Sarah, let him go now!"_

"_You heard Auntie," Mommy sings against my cheek. "I've got—to let you—go." Her arms are suddenly gone, and I scream again as I reach out, clutching at air._

"_Jacob!" Auntie Em screams, and the last thing I feel before my feet slip is warm arms around me as my eyes close and the waves snap at me and I fall._

I clutch at the handles, holding on so tightly that my knuckles turn white and I forget how to breathe. "Stop it," I gasp aloud. I can't hear myself over the roar of my Harley, but the words echo through my head. "Stop thinking and drive."

It works—for the most part anyway. I regain enough focus to realize I'm swerving and have no choice but to pull over so I can calm the fuck down. "It's over, Jake," I tell myself, forcing deep breaths in and out of my throat methodically. "She's gone, she's dead. You're fine." My heart doesn't believe a word of it though; its beat stays uneven and rapid, and I can feel wetness burning in the back of my eyes.

I shouldn't be scared of her anymore. She can't hurt me, she was crazy and she didn't mean all the horrible things she said and did. On her good days, she was silent in her resentment, leaving me alone and answering calmly when I dared to ask her a question. Her eyes didn't burn and her hands were gentle instead of angry. She was hollow, but she was there, without the rage, without the pain and hysteria.

"Stop thinking about it, Jake," I rasp, tangling my hand in my hair, now wet with rain I didn't notice is falling. "Get a grip," I mutter hoarsely. "Stop being such a fucking crybaby." I take a deep breath—my heart is still pounding like an Indian drum, but I don't think I can help that—and pull back onto the road, driving much slower than usual. I purposefully keep focused on the sounds and sights and smells around me—the hum of the engine, a shimmering puddle to my left, dark clouds hovering over rich green trees, the cool, sweet scent of rain in the air. For some reason, that scent reminds me of Edward.

I relax when I think of him, when his evergreen eyes and raspberry-stained lips float through my mind. My heart slows to a steady thudding and my face softens as I remember his shy smile and flushed cheeks. The image brings peace to the frayed recesses of my brain as I drive and I keep it lodged firmly in my head so that the memories won't come back. With memories come nightmares, I learned that long ago. Soon I'm pulling into the Cullens' driveway, calm and collected for all the world to see, without a trace of my earlier shakiness or fear.

I'm surprised when Edward's brother answers the door. He gives me a mile-wide smile and claps me on the back as I step inside, making me stumble forward and nearly fall on my face. "Hey, man!" he booms.

I clear my throat as I straighten up, trying to discreetly roll my shoulders. I'm gonna have a bruise there tomorrow. Hell, I'm probably gonna have a big red welt on there the size of Canada. I feel his eyes on my back and I half-turn to lift a brow in question. He's got this puzzled look on his face, like he can't quite figure out what I'm doing in his house, but his expression brightens when he meets my gaze, and he saunters ahead of me into the massive living room. I follow behind him more slowly.

The carpet is white, the walls are white—well, what walls there are, since most of the backdrop consists of huge glass paneling that reveals a very green backyard with a deck and grill, along with a gazebo nestled between two giant pine trees. I look around with wide eyes; I've never actually gotten a close-up look at this room, just the dining room and a bit of the kitchen and, of course, Edward's bedroom. There's a sleek chimney made out of this weird, eco-friendly white brick stuff that I bet cost a fortune, and a huge flat-screen, at least 72 inches, hangs in the middle of it, just above the mantle adorned with a ridiculously large amount of family pictures and knick-knacks. I see a few baby photos, though the babies featured are both dark-haired so they can't be Edward, along with a blown-up wedding portrait and some holiday cards up for display. It looks so homey and perfect, and for the first time a flash of genuine jealousy rushes through my body. Edward has fucking everything he could possibly want, and I just barely scrape by with only cold pizza, beer, and wishes to live on.

But the envy leaves just as quickly as it came, and I watch Emmett pull out some controllers and a remote of some kind for a moment before I realize what he's setting up. "Video games?" I ask dubiously. "Aren't I supposed to be helping Edward with the project?"

Emmett shrugs noncommittally and kneels by the cupboard that appears to hold all their DVDs and game, searching for something. "He should be down in a minute," is all he says.

I sigh and shove my hands in my pockets, fighting the sudden eagerness that rises up when I think of seeing him again. God, I'm such a fucking girl. "Oh," is all I say.

We stay silent for the next few minutes—me leaning against the wall with arms crossed, studying the spotless room, Emmett rummaging through the cupboard and pulling out all sorts of equipment. I wonder what exactly he's planning on doing with it all. You don't need five controllers to play a one-man video game.

I'm just about ready to ask Emmett why he needs twelve fucking remotes to operate a TV when I hear footsteps pattering down the stairs behind me. They're quiet, muffled, but I still hear them and I turn to find Edward gliding down the stairs like some sort of ethereal angel. The ceiling lights turn his skin a delicious shade of ivory, and as usual something in my stomach roils painfully. I want to slide my fingers across the column of his neck, feel his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. I want to see those forest eyes go dark and wide and those raspberry lips part as his heart rate stutters. I just want to touch him so badly.

Edward looks down and he smiles, but there's something off about the expression. It's tighter, sadder, and I swear his eyes are red-rimmed. His face is paler than usual and his hair looks a bit wilder. "Hey, Jacob," he says softly, and he seems almost hesitant to speak to me, like making any noise will provoke me into attacking him.

I frown to myself for a moment but smile at him. "Hey," I reply. "We going upstairs?"

He nods and snags his bottom lip between his teeth as I approach the staircase. Our eyes meet for a moment before he turns and heads up, and maybe it's the light or something, but he looks like he's about to cry. I wait until we're in the safety of his room though, before I remark upon it. I want to put a hand on his shoulder or something, but settling for asking, "Hey, you okay, man?" God, can I _not _sound like such a _guy_? I sound like I'm asking him if it's _that time of the month again_ or something.

He doesn't answer for a minute, and I wonder if he even heard me, he's so distracted. But just as I'm about to repeat the question he sighs and turns around. He looks miserable when he says, "I'm fine."

I raise a brow. I should probably just leave it alone but he looks like if a leaf fell on his head, he'd shatter into fragments. "You sure?"

For a second I see his eyes water before he lowers his head and mumbles, "Yeah."

My fingers itch to touch him and it takes every ounce of strength within me to deny my need to comfort him. I'm aching inside because something's obviously paining him, but I can't press him. We're not even friends, so why would he confide in me, even if I want him to? What on earth would make him think that I want to know every insignificant detail about his life because it's _him_? I've only ever treated him like shit, so why should he expect any other sort of behavior now? I had sort of hoped he was growing more relaxed around me, less afraid and uncomfortable, but apparently not, because right now his shoulders are hunched and his lips are quivering and he looks like a goddamn mess. But something in me rejects the idea of feeling sympathy for him. Something in me clings stubbornly to the sliver of anger I feel for him, even if I want nothing more than to let it go and wrap him in my arms. Only I can't. I've broken so many of my own rules, fantasized so many times about something I shouldn't want, something I instinctively know is forbidden. You don't go having wet dreams about your almost-girlfriend's virginal, straight ex-boyfriend. It just isn't done. And I know it's wrong. I know I shouldn't have these feelings, for so many different reasons, but right now I can't recall a single fucking one. All I want is to wipe away the tears shimmering in his eyes, to kiss away all the pain and feel his cool skin against mine as I wrap my arms around him.

_Stop it, Jake. Don't think like that._

I swallow hard and give Edward a shaky nod, clenching my hands into fists to keep from reaching out for him. "Okay," I say. My voice is gruff, unrecognizable.

He glances up, his emerald eyes peering through strands of silky bronze hair, and for a timeless moment, I stare back, lost in him and my bewildering desires. My pulse doesn't stutter and my knees don't quiver and my cock doesn't leap to attention. It's something else, something different, seeing him like this. A tightening feeling in my stomach, a flutter of air through my blood, whistling and singing and dancing. It's like I'm drowning in him, frozen, locked in his eyes, surrounded by walls that block out sounds and smells and sights and thoughts. All I can see and feel is him. Just him. Only him. He's surrounding me and holding me, even from five feet away. It feels like I'm falling, and it's scary, and it's funny, and it's good, and I never want it to end. I want to fall forever.

But I can't when he pulls in a barely audible gasp of air and whispers, "Have you found a poem yet?"

I almost stumble from the shock of snapping back to reality. "What?" I ask. My skin is tingling with energy, with magnetism.

He smiles sadly. "I said, have you picked a poem yet? It's alright if you haven't, I'd just like to know."

With a frown, I run a shaky hand through my hair. I'm so lost and confused, and my scattered thoughts are hard to gather so it takes me a minute to answer. "No," I finally say.

He turns without another word and gestures toward his laptop. "Go ahead and keep looking then, I guess." From any other person the words would have seemed agitated, but when he said it he only sounded tired. Like drop-dead-and-sleep-for-a-century tired. He rubs the corner of his jaw with one hand, looking almost sick. "I'll be back in a while. I need to go talk to Alice about something."

"Alice is home?" I ask. I don't know why I ask, but there it is. I am sort of surprised, I guess. I figured she'd be at some sort of voodoo doll arts-and-crafts session or something. She seriously looks like she'd be into that shit, even though she manages to look like a brunette Tinkerbell at the same damn time.

Edward turns a bit and nods. "Yeah, she's out on the gazebo writing."

I raise an eyebrow in surprise. "Oh yeah, I saw that in the backyard. Pretty nice."

He smiles, but it's pretty half-assed in my opinion. "Thanks. I like it too." He nods at me and slips past me and out the door without another word, leaving me bewildered, exasperated, and alone with his laptop.

~oOo~

It's five-thirty, Edward's not back, I'm fucking starving, the laptop is singing the hairs on my legs, and I still haven't found a poem. I've looked through songs, quotes, plays, even Chinese proverbs, and not a single fucking thing has struck my fancy, so to speak. I hate technology, laptops, and the Internet, among other things. "Get it together, Jake," I mutter to myself as I type in another set of keywords that will doubtless bring over a million results.

Ten minutes later, however, I'm interrupted by a soft knock on the door. "Come in," I call, feeling uncomfortable saying it since it isn't actually my room.

Esme pokes her head around the door, her face lit up in its residual beam of happiness. "Oh, hello, Jacob, I nearly forgot you were in here. You're so quiet," she laughs brightly. I can't help but smile at her shining eyes as she continues cheerfully, "I just thought I'd let you know that dinner's ready if you'd like to stay. We're having an _Indiana Jones _marathon afterwards, if you want to stay for that too."

"Indiana Jones?" I smirk at her in amusement.

She rolls her eyes and laughs. "What can I say?" She shrugs. "It was Carlisle's turn to pick."

We chuckle together for a moment before I reply, "Yeah, thanks, I'd love to stay if that's alright with you guys." How can I possibly say no? It's like stepping into a fucking Hallmark movie every time I enter the house.

She smiles at me. "Of course, we'd love for you to stay," she assures me eagerly.

I close the laptop and set it down, stretching as I stand from the lounge. "Thanks."

"None necessary, dear." She winks at me and grins as she closes the door.

I sigh. This entire family is ridiculously happy—well, except maybe Alice.

When I head downstairs I can hear the thwacking sound of a knife against a cutting board and the muffled voices on the TV along with a booming laugh every few seconds. It has to be Emmett—no other human being is capable of being so loud. The first thing I see when I enter the living room is Rosalie sprawled across Emmett's lap on the cream leather couch, giggling and carding her fingers through his black curls. He sees me first and winks before, with an earth-shaking roar, he rolls over and pins her to the cushions, his loud laugh ringing through the house again.

"Emmett Cullen, get the hell off me!" she shrieks, struggling even as her high-pitched laughter trills into the air.

"Admit it, Princess, you love it," he guffaws with a huge grin on his face.

I smirk at the look of bloodlust that sparks in her violet eyes as with a sudden, unexpected heave she slips out of his grasp and tackles him, sending them both into a tangled heap on the floor. Now she's straddling his hips and pinning his arms on either side of his head, a knowing smirk on those full, cherry-red lips as she leans toward him, revealing a hint of her pretty impressive rack. "Call me Princess one more time and I'll have to spank you." I have to strain to hear the words, and just when I figure it out she grinds down on him once, teasing him, before she stands and leaves him a panting, horny mess on the carpet as she sashays past me toward the kitchen, winking saucily at me as she goes.

I whistle after her and Emmett groans from his place on the floor. With a smirk I move over and hold out a hand to help him up. "That girl . . ." He shakes his head as he stands. "She's my soulmate, man. She's a fucking cock-tease, but she's my soulmate."

"I believe you, Em," I say, grinning and nodding. He's completely pussy-whipped, poor guy.

"Dinner's ready!" I hear Esme call.

Emmett cocks an eyebrow at me. "Race?"

I roll my eyes. "You're such a four-year-old," I tease. But I still shout after him when he takes off running, "No fair, you got a head-start!"

He flips me the bird as he sprints away toward the dining room.

Ten minutes later we're at the table, only this time I'm sitting opposite Edward, next to Alice, so I hold her hand and Esme's instead of his. It's ridiculously disappointing. God, where, oh where have my balls gone?

Edward doesn't speak a word to me, which is sort of strange, but I try my best to ignore it as I debate with Emmett about the pros and cons of Jeep Wranglers, even though my eyes still wander to him constantly. Sometimes I feel Alice's gaze on me, and I wonder why she keeps staring at me like she knows something I don't. There aren't any food fights tonight, although Rosalie comes pretty close to starting a rather dangerous game of let's-toss-the-silverware.

Afterwards, Esme recruits Alice and Edward for clean-up, and the rest of us file into the living room for the marathon. I'm still rolling my eyes over Indiana Jones when Carlisle turns off the lights and cheesy music pulses from the surround sound. I've curled up in a corner of the couch while Emmett stretches out across the rest of the space, Rosalie tucked neatly in front of him. Carlisle takes the recliner and when the dishwashers join us, Esme slides onto Carlisle's lap with a smile while Alice takes the armchair by the wall, a notebook under her arm. Edward sits on the loveseat by the window, across the room from me.

Something's wrong. I don't know why, but it's almost like he's avoiding me, trying to pull away. Like he's preparing to be let down. I don't get it, but it worries me. I can't imagine what's going through his head right now—which isn't all that unusual, I guess—but whatever it is, it can't be good. Which means I've done something. I don't know what, but I've definitely done something.

Shit.

I sigh very quietly and Emmett cocks an eyebrow at me as he trails a line of kisses down his girlfriend's neck. I roll my eyes at him and look back at the screen, but I can't stay still. First of all, Alice keeps glancing at me like she's got a secret and she's having some sort of inside joke about me. Second of all, Emmett's kissy noises are seriously starting to creep me out. And third of all, I could swear that I saw a tear run down Edward's cheek before he rubbed it away. He's crying. Why is he crying? Is it me? Oh God, what've I done? It must be bad, but I've got no fucking clue what "it" is. This would be so much easier if I was a chick.

I sit there and try and squirm inconspicuously, but Emmett notices, narrowing his eyes and nudging me—hard—with his foot as he hisses, "Man, I'm trying to grope my girlfriend over here. Settle down."

Rosalie giggles and I sigh as I stand. I can't possibly sit through this without dying from confusion, or self-disgust. I made Edward cry—even though I've got no fucking clue how—and I can't just sit around and watch the tears glimmer in his eyes. I'm not a fucking statue. "Hey, I'm gonna head out," I say, softly enough not to drown out the movie, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Aw, you're leaving already?" Emmett whines, and I smirk.

"Yeah, man, sorry, we have school tomorrow." I glance at Edward but he's staring pointedly at the television. Something in me softens when I see his hands clenched in his lap and the way his shoulders hunch forward ever so slightly the second I look at him. I sigh.

"Are you coming over tomorrow?" Esme asks. I must be imagining the hope in her voice. I barely know these people and they barely know me, but they're still treating me like their long-lost son, like I'm already part of their family. It's scary to someone like me, who's been abandoned and let down and neglected so many times, to feel so wanted. It feels strange, but good in a way, to be loved unconditionally, to be accepted. I don't want to leave this cocoon of warmth the Cullens surround me in, but I can't stay any longer with Edward so silent. I'm worried, and I can't seem to get up the courage to ask him what's wrong. I want to help him, but I'm a coward.

"Sure," I tell her, smiling, and I wave a little before turning and heading for the door. When I glance over my shoulder, they've all gone back to what they were doing before, Carlisle watching Indiana with a look of serious concentration on his face, Emmett and Rosalie murmuring things to each other and kissing occasionally, Esme idly fiddling with her husband's hair while smiling at the whip-yielding lunatic's antics, and Alice curled up in her armchair writing something, only half-watching the movie. Edward is staring at the screen but obviously not paying attention; he's biting his lip, lashes lowered to sweep against his cheeks as the light from the screen and the lamp dance across his face and turn his hair a rich shade of silvery auburn. My eyes are drawn to him, a magnetic pull that I can't resist, and I pause, drinking him in. He's perfect. Why can't I get past him, his shining eyes and beautiful smile? Why do I not hate him anymore?

I swallow hard, the ache in my heart intensifying when suddenly his eyes flash up to mine.

I don't know what I want anymore. But I know I can't just let him go, let us fall into our old patterns. I'm not going to try to hate him or even care about him. I just need to know if it's possible that somehow, despite everything separating us, we could get along, that we could be . . . friends. And maybe if we become friends, this ache, this burning desire, will subside and I'll be able to quit acting like an infatuated teenage girl. I don't want to doubt myself anymore. I don't want to feel like something's wrong, that I've messed up somehow.

So I take a deep breath before tossing my head toward the door, silently asking him to come with me. His eyes widen and he bites his lip as he stands slowly, a faint pink coloring those ivory cheeks. My heart is pounding like a drum, beating against my ribcage like it's trying to escape, trying to leap out and fall at Edward's feet. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I turn around hastily, hearing Edward's soft footsteps behind me, and slip outside onto the porch, waiting until I hear the thud of the door shutting before I let out a slow, shuddering breath and relax a bit, feeling his presence sending waves of cool comfort across my skin. I want to drown in him, I want to be surrounded, enveloped by that delicious coolness just radiating from his skin. God, I want him. And it scares me. But I can't walk away.

We stand there for what seems like hours before I find the courage to whisper, "Walk with me."

He doesn't question it. He follows me when I take the steps two at a time, heading toward the shadows of the trees where he can't see the turmoil in my eyes, even if it'll be obvious from the tremor in my voice. I hear his feet padding through the leaves, barely making a sound, and I stomp more loudly, trying to make up for the weighty silence that engulfs us. And when I reach the trees, there's nothing to do but turn around and look him in the eye.

He looks almost . . . scared.

Scared of me.

He's scared of me.

I swallow the self-loathing that's starting to build in my throat. I've done that. I've made him fucking _afraid _of me. I need to fix this. And I need to do it _now _before I lose my nerve. So I plow ahead and hope it comes out sounding reasonably understandable. "Wibbefriendme?"

Shit. There went understandable, right down the drain along with my pride. This is what Edward Cullen has reduced me to. A blabbering, incomprehensible idiot lacking both social skills and balls.

He raises his eyebrows, and I think I see a flicker of amusement in his sad eyes. "What?" he asks.

I sigh and raise a hand to rub the back of my neck nervously. "I-I just . . ." God, I don't think I can do this. He's _Edward fucking Cullen_, the guy I've sworn to loathe for all eternity. No. I need to just get over it and dislodge the stick I've apparently got shoved up my ass. I'm being a douche and I need to do something about it. He needs to know I don't hate him. He needs to know I don't want him to be afraid of me. He needs to know I want to be his friend. He needs to know I want to kiss him—

No, not that. He _definitely _does not need to know that. Being his friend is one thing, suddenly turning gay and wanting to ravish his virgin ass and make him mine and mine only, is a different matter entirely. Even if I do want to do that and so much more, he does _not _need to know. For a variety of reasons, most involving Bella. As much as I wish _she _weren't a part of this, she is. I still care about her, even if I've decided I can't deal with her shit anymore, and a part of me still sees Edward as the guy who broke her heart and left her to pick up the pieces. Even if another part sees him as the guy in my dream who gave me the orgasm of a lifetime using nothing more than his hand.

I clear my throat and shift so he can't see my body's response to my thoughts. I swear I might be blushing; I feel hot, too hot. And he's staring at me with those endless moss-colored eyes, waiting for me to speak. Oh yeah. Shit. I'm supposed to say something. I pray the shadows hide the scowl that appears on my face and I take a deep breath before whispering, "Will you . . . be friends with me?"

His eyes widen and I bite down on my bottom lip anxiously, feeling self-conscious all of the sudden. What if he doesn't want to be around me? What if he's only put up with me so long for the sake of a grade? I can feel my heart rate speed up rapidly at the thoughts tumbling through my mind. _Just cool it, Jake. Who the fuck cares if he doesn't want to be friends? It's not like your life depends on it or anything_. Well, actually, right now it feels like my life _does _depend on it, like if he says no my knees are gonna give in and I'll collapse.

I wish so badly that I could know what he's thinking, what the emotion flickering behind the green of his eyes truly means. "Edward?" I whisper finally, softly, hesitantly.

Those eyes flash to mine, pearl-white teeth biting down on the strawberry-colored flesh of his bottom lip. "Do you mean it?" he asks quietly. He looks so shy and hopeful, pink blooming on his moonlit cheeks. I want to make those cheeks scarlet. I want to do all sorts of things to him and see what other parts of him can blush. I want to devour him.

I frown, partly because my cock is ridiculously enthused by my line of thought, and partly because his question is unsettling for some reason. "What the f—" I clear my throat. "What do you mean, 'Do I mean it?'" My voice is hoarser than I'd like, but he doesn't seem to notice.

He nibbles on his lip again. I can barely keep from staring at his mouth and watching the small movement. God, the things I want to do to him. The things I want to say to him. My cock pulses.

Down, boy.

"I-I just . . ." He sighs and runs a hand shakily through those messy copper curls. My fingers itch to join his. "I just never thought you'd . . . _want _to be around me." He pauses before adding with no small amount of courage, "After—you know—_that_."

I clear my throat. "I'm done with Bella," I tell him bluntly. His eyes widen and my dick rages at me from its cage in my jeans. "We're over."

"Oh." I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows audibly. "Okay."

"So . . ." I hesitate. He looks distracted, deep in thought, like he's forgotten I'm even here, forgotten the question I brought him out here to ask him in the first place. Do I really have to say it again? I glance at his face once more. Still thoughtful. God. Okay, here I go. "So, friends, then?"

His head whips up and he stares at me with shining everglade eyes, a beaming smile lighting up his face, and I can see those dimples peeking out again. He looks almost relieved. "Friends," he confirms. His smile is nearly blinding. My pulse stutters. I'm beginning to wonder if it's a Cullen thing to produce smiles that stop traffic.

I can't help the slow grin that's spreading across my face and I don't even realize what I'm doing until my arms are wrapped around his shoulders, my cheek pressed against his silky curls—even softer than I thought they'd be—and my heart pulsing with happiness simply because he just agreed to be friends with me. I've officially lost my balls.

I feel rather than hear his sharp intake of breath, and suddenly I realize how close we are, skin-to-skin, chests touching, his coolness surrounding me, the scent of his hair intoxicating me, the feel of his skin perfect. Too perfect. And I gasp and pull away, suddenly afraid of what he'll think. His eyes are lowered, barely open, and he's breathing almost as hard as I am. I don't take the time to wonder what it means. Instead I stutter, "Sorry, I didn't—" I don't know how to finish so I run a shaky hand through my hair, aching to feel him in my arms again. My cock twitches in my jeans and I swear internally. Everything about the guy sets me off, and I don't know how much longer I'll be able to go on without fucking _something_, be it my hand or an actual person. I know it won't be him, and I don't really, um, find any guy attractive like that except for Edward, but dammit, I don't want a girl in my bed. It seems wrong to me somehow, like I'd be betraying him, even though we're only friends. I want to grin when I think of that. Friends. I'm friends with Virgin-Ass Cullen, and it's the best fucking feeling in the world.

At last he looks up and I realize just how long the silence has gone on. There's a glow of timid awe in his eyes and he smiles angelically at me, stunning me yet again. "I'll see you tomorrow then?" he asks.

I nod and this time I really can't stop the grin that spreads across my face. "Great," I say.

His smile brightens and I can barely see the trace of a blush across his ivory skin as he turns and gives me a little half-wave before heading back to the house, every step graceful and flowing and boner-inducing. I swallow and ignore the strange fluttering of my heart, climbing onto my Harley and setting off for my house, probably looking like a moron dressed in black astride a massive Harley, speeding down the road at sixty-five with a huge, shit-eating grin on my face as I laugh my ass off.

I'm friends with Edward fucking Cullen.

~oOo~

_A/N: Thanks to my beta and pre-reader. You ladies are brilliant as always!_

_I love all you guys, you know. Every review brings a smile to my face, but I've grown lazy about replying. Hopefully I'll get around to it sometime this weekend or next week. For now, just know that I adore every single reader and I wish I could give ya'll a big hug—and not the virtual kind. But I WILL reply to everyone. *determined face*_

_Meanwhile, press that little review button and send our boys some love!_


	9. Raindrops

_Title: Magnetism_

_Author: buildmeapyramid_

_Fandom: Twilight Saga_

_Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes_

_Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella_

_Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me._

_A/N: Okay, long A/N in store here. You can skip past it if you're not interested in pathetic, blubbering excuses for my incompetence and laziness. Ahem, here I go . . ._

_First, my apologies. Yes, I know. I'm a horrible human being for being so lazy about this chapter. I blame the government. *nods* I could say I've been busy with RL and such, but that's a big fat fucking lie if ever I heard one, and you'll see right through it, so I won't even bother. Just know that I'm going to work a lot harder, and I've got some kick-ass girls to beat me to a pulp if I don't get my ass into gear._

_Second, I'm extremely pissed off at Jake right now. I'm debating whether or not to bitch-slap him. But, in my defense, he practically demanded it to go this way. The asshole basically sacked my storyline. I'm not sure if I'll ever forgive him *pouts*_

_And third, thanks to all the girls over on Twitter. They are my wonderful, sweet, hilarious, perverted slash h00r cheerleaders, and I love them all to bits. This chapter would never have gone the way it did without them. Cheers, darlings!_

_Alright, because I'm nice, I'll save the rest for the end. Enjoy, and leave some love!_

~oOo~

9. Raindrops

Wednesday morning is weird. In the parking lot, my usual spot is taken by a ridiculous rusty orange affair in serious need of a paint job and I'm forced to park in the only remaining space I can see—right next to Bella's death-machine-on-wheels. In the hallways, students swerve out of my way more than they normally do, and when I stop at my locker the girl next to me literally fucking squeaks and runs away. And in English, I figure out why.

At first, I don't notice anything strange. Mr. Garrison is shuffling papers at his desk, and students are speaking in hushed murmurs, giggles and gasps being exchanged for morning gossip. Edward is already seated at our table by the window, those glorious bronze curls shimmering with gold from the pale sunlight shining outside. I smile to myself, glowing when I remember that we're friends—officially friends—and head toward him, a tiny spark of warmth unfurling in my stomach, only to stop dead in my tracks when my eyes flicker out of habit toward Bella's table.

Her hair is gone. Or, most of it at least. Chopped right off. It barely brushes the bottoms of her ears, and it's straightened flatter than a board, a stark contrast to the long, luscious mahogany curls that she used to have. She knows how much I adore her hair. She knows how much I used to love to card my fingers through the silky curls and find the reddish lights hidden amongst the brown. But now it's gone.

And as if that weren't enough to infuriate me, the fact that she's practically sitting on that new guy's lap, one hand on his thigh, the other tracing circles on his shoulder, nearly makes my blood boil. She's so fucking bitter, purposefully trying to keep my eyes on her, throwing in my face the pain I'm putting her through, but I don't know what I can do. The Bella I knew a year ago was sweet and quiet and fun, always laughing and smiling, always gloriously unaware of the way she mesmerized everyone around her. But the Bella I see now—the Bella both Edward and I rejected—is a stranger, flashing hollow smiles and empty glances, and it hurts to watch her. The edge of the pain is still fresh even if I've begun to heal, and she was my best friend even before I wanted her. We grew up together. We loved together. We were always a part of each other—we always will be. And she'll always have a hold on me, no matter how much I want to sever every tie that connects us.

She looks up, and I drag in a sharp breath of air. There's something so different, so _lost _about her, like she's drowning, but that smile—that fucking vacant smile—stays in place as she eyes me for a moment before turning back to _him._

I can't help the swell of anger in my gut, but I don't know why—I can barely remember how to breathe. I want to grab a fistful of her hair and scream at her to quit pushing herself into my thoughts, to just leave me alone. And that scares me. I've never dreamed of hurting her, never wanted to see her face crumble like it would if I said those things. But now I want nothing more.

So I force myself to look away.

And I see Edward watching me.

He looks sad again. And his lips are sort of . . . quivering. Like he's about to cry.

Something in me is terrified of seeing him cry. I never want him to hurt badly enough to cry. If he does, if I ever saw those eyes overflow with tears, I don't think I could stop myself from reaching for him, from trying to comfort him.

Behind me, I hear someone clear their throat. "Take a seat please, Jacob," Mr. Garrison says.

I take a deep breath, determinedly ignoring the way my heart pounds as I obediently move toward the table where Edward is seated, watching me approach with a strange sort of wariness in his gaze.

"How're the projects going?" Mr. Garrison asks loudly, rubbing his hands together with a grin on his face.

Soon, he's paired us up with our table partners to do some book work, and I'm sitting there pretending to read a short story and trying my hardest _not _to sneak a glance at Edward, who's busily scratching notes as usual, when suddenly he drops his pencil and stands hurriedly, nearly scaring the living shit out of me. I look up, startled, and he pointedly avoids my eyes, instead ducking his head and slipping past me to go up to Mr. Garrison. His rosy lips move but I can't hear what he's saying over the droning of the voices around me. And I'm dying to know.

"What was that about?" I ask him when he gets back, sliding silently into his seat beside me, mere feet away. I could reach out and touch him if I want to—slide a hand down his side, tangle my fingers in his hair.

I scowl and stuff my hands underneath my legs to quell the urge.

He frowns in adorable confusion that makes my heart stutter. "What was what about?"

I nod in Mr. Garrison's direction. "You were talking to him." It sounds like an accusation.

He tilts his head just slightly and those green eyes study me carefully, like he's trying to figure something out. "I had a question," he says slowly. His gaze drops to the table and he bites down on that luscious lip, hunching his shoulders like he expects me to cuff him on the head or something.

It makes me worry. I've done something. Somehow I always do something. But I can never figure out what it is.

So I clear my throat and drop my eyes too, turning my head and angling my shoulders away from him.

I barely hear his soft, sad sigh.

~oOo~

"Where're you going?" My dad's gruff voice stops me in the hall and I turn, startled. He's standing in the doorway of the kitchen, looking like total shit of course. There's a bit of scruff on his jaw, his eyes are bloodshot, and his skin looks a bit clammy. He's got shadows under his eyes and from the looks—and smell—of him, he hasn't showered in a while.

But what's most surprising is the lack of a beer in his hand.

I cock an eyebrow and ignore the pain clenching in my stomach. "What're you doing here?" I ask cautiously.

He shrugs and avoids my eyes, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while the other one tightens on the door frame as he sways slightly. "Ya didn't answer my question," he mumbles.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair nervously. "I'm heading over to a friend's," I mutter. Even with the emotions swirling through my gut like they always do whenever I see my dad, I can't help but smile a little to myself when I call Edward a friend. The tender glow of that word warms me.

"A friend's?" His brow furrows.

I straighten up. "Yeah." My next words burst forth before I can stop them. "Why d'you care?"

His eyes flash to mine, the dark irises glittering, and I can't quite place if there's anger in them, or sadness. "Pick up some beer on your way back," he whispers hoarsely before turning and shutting the door behind him with a muffled thud.

I stare at the wall for a moment, bitterness choking me, before slipping out of the house, grabbing my keys and jacket from the hall as I ago. It's drizzling, and the cool drops on my head and shoulders feel cleansing, soothing almost. With a heavy sigh I climb on my Harley and let the wind and rain and pavement rule my thoughts instead of the dredged-up memories that invade my mind every time I catch a glimpse of my dad. I still don't understand why he's at the house. He only ever comes home in the wee hours of the morning, after all the beer has been drunk and the brawls have been fought. But there he was, standing—albeit a little shakily—in the kitchen doorway, sober from what I could see, and without a beer in sight.

I don't know what to make of it.

By the time I get to Edward's house it's stopped raining, and I can hear classical music floating through the house when I step onto the porch and knock on the door. Light, pattering footsteps sound from inside and then Esme's smile is beaming at me as she swings the door open. "Jacob," she exclaims, "I didn't think you were coming today!" Her warm eyes are shining at me.

I smile, almost relieved to see her bright smile, and hug her back when she wraps her tiny arms around me. She smells like cinnamon and freshly-baked bread, and it's unbelievably comforting. "Hey, Esme," I say.

She leans away from me to meet my eyes, clear worry written on her face. "Are you alright, dear?" she asks gently. "You look a bit . . . pale."

I force a more authentic smile onto my face. "Yeah, fine," I tell her. It's obvious that she doesn't believe me, but she doesn't question it. "Where's Edward?" I ask.

"He's out in the gazebo reading." She smiles but her eyes study me as though she's trying to figure something out.

I squirm under her gaze. "I'll—uh—go out and see him then," I say slowly.

She nods and her smile returns with full force as she glides back, toward the kitchen. "Alright, dear. Are you staying for dinner? We'd love to have you."

"Sure, Esme. Thanks." My smile is stronger this time, less wavering.

The kitchen door leads out onto a patio, and I can see the gazebo nestled against the trees, white wood gleaming against the dark greens and earthy browns. I clear my throat and ignore the tiny flutter of my nerves as I move across the yard, careful to make as little noise as possible. At first I can't see his face, just a long leg crooked at the knee, the curve of an arm, the flash of slender fingers turning a page.

And then he's there. Pale and silent and beautiful, with riotous bronze curls and sin-colored lips, a book open on his propped-up legs. The sleeves of his gray button-down are rolled up, and I want to sigh when I glimpse the smooth, ivory flesh of his arms. There's something undeniably arousing about the sight, and I can't help but ache to touch them, press my lips to the tender skin and taste him.

I swallow hard and pause at the steps, frozen for a moment as my desires overwhelm me. "Hi," I finally whisper.

His head shoots up and the book tumbles from his lap as he shifts. "Oh!" he gasps. For a second he looks like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It makes me smile to myself.

I clear my throat and, even though it's probably a stupid thing to do, I rush forward and pick up the fallen book before he has a chance to. When I straighten he's staring at me with this strange sort of shy wonder, like I'm an angel or something. A strange surge of emotion trembles through me, and my hand shakes when I thrust it forward, shoving the book toward him. "Here," I say gruffly.

He takes it from me and bites his lip as he sets it down beside him. "Thanks." His voice is a whisper.

My eyes dart to his for a second—he's studiously examining his knees now—before wandering to the book next to him. "More poetry?" I ask quietly. He nods, and I breathe a sigh as I sit down on the bench that wraps around the inside of the gazebo. It's cushioned and unbelievably comfortable. "Do you come here a lot?" My voice is raspy for some reason; I think it might have something to do with the way his bottom lip is flushed and red from him biting down on it, the way his cheeks are tinged with rosy color as he glances up at me through long lashes.

"Yes," he murmurs after a moment. "I like to read out here."

"It's nice," I say, looking around at my surroundings just to keep from staring at him. My heart thuds unevenly.

We sit there in silence, him studying the floor and me studying the landscape, and it's so quiet I can hear each breath he lets out, each rustle of wind through the trees. I want to fidget, or sigh, or cross my legs, or do _something_, but I'm afraid to move. He looks so vulnerable, his shoulders hunched and head lowered, always so timid. I don't want him to be afraid of me. Or nervous. Or shy.

I want him to see himself for who he truly is. Beautiful. Mesmerizing. Kind. Perfect. I want him to know how much he means to me, how much I want me to mean to him. And that thought makes something in me ache.

"I found a poem," I finally say. I didn't actually plan on _saying_ it, though; it just sort of slipped out.

His eyes flash to mine and a small smile crooks his raspberry-colored lips. "Did you?"

I nod hesitantly. "Yeah. It's the one you read to me that night . . ." I clear my throat when I remember my dream. "'Life and Art' by Emma Lazarus."

His eyes widen and he looks down, biting that lip again. "Oh." For a moment he says nothing else. Then, "Did you like it that much?" I catch a flash of rainforest irises before his lashes flutter down again.

I duck my head and stare at the ground. "Yeah. It's a good poem."

When I dare a peek at him he's smiling this strange, soft, secret smile. "It is," he agrees quietly.

Silence. Again. I wish I could know what he's thinking. It's maddening, second-guessing myself like this. Analyzing every move I make. Trying to figure him out. "What's your poem then?" I ask finally.

"Clair de Lune," he answers with another smile. "It's a composition by Debussy."

"A composition? Like . . . piano music?"

He nods. "I was going to compose a piece for the project. If that's okay with you," he adds shyly. "I asked Mr. Garrison today if I could." Those mesmerizing green eyes peek over at me again, and I feel the effects of it down to my tightly-curled toes. I want to touch him so badly—

Instead I swallow. "Yeah, that's sounds cool." My voice is a bit rough.

He glances up at me for a moment, his expression unreadable, before biting his lip and looking back down again. I wish I could understand those quick flashes of emotion in his eyes, why he always seems so hesitant around me. I wish I knew why he's afraid.

The words burst from me before I can stop them. "Can I ask you a question?"

His eyes meet mine for a bit longer than before. "Sure." He looks a bit nervous, unsure, and I'm absolutely sick of that look on his face.

So I clear my throat and press forward, determined to ask him even though I'm not sure if I want to know the answer. "Why-why were you—um—acting funny yesterday?" I dare a glance up at him, and his eyes are closed, his pearl teeth peeking out to bite down on that mouthwatering, raspberry-colored bottom lip. My breath catches in my throat, and I watch, mesmerized, as the blood darkens his lip even more, turning it a luscious, sinful red that makes my skin tingle and my cock twitch. I shouldn't react like this, I know, but he's just so _tempting_, so irresistibly intoxicating, and I can't look away, not yet. Just another moment to stare at that perfect face, those perfect lips, those perfect eyes—

Shit. His eyes are open. He's watching me watch him. My heart thuds in my chest and I swear his eyes darken, turning a deep, smoldering green that glitters and snaps emerald sparks from behind those lowered lashes. His teeth release their hold on that lower lip, and I let out an embarrassingly loud gasp of air that I didn't realize I'd been holding, my mind exploding with images of those fiery eyes and raspberry lips, of those lashes fluttering down against his pale cheeks, those slender, long-fingered hands tracing patterns on my skin. And suddenly I don't know if I can settle for friends anymore, because right now all I can think of is how much I want to touch him, how much I want him to touch me.

"I-I . . ." He flushes and looks away, and in an instant the heat that simmers in his eyes is gone, replaced by uncertainty, hesitance. His brows knit together and those lips part to release a sigh. I wonder how his breath would feel against my skin. "I was just . . . nervous."

That jars me from my thoughts enough to drag my gaze away from his perfect mouth and back to his eyes. He's still looking away, out toward the house, toward the porch and the kitchen window. "What?" I ask numbly. My mouth is dry, my voice hoarse like I've been smoking nonstop for days.

He glances at me, this time discreetly, as though he doesn't want to be caught looking my way. My heart stutters in its beat as that green gaze meets mine for less than a second before he turns his head again. "I was . . ." He takes an audible breath, and I see his lashes flutter down. "I was afraid you were upset."

I frown, for the moment forgetting how lush and ripe his lips are, how much I want to run my fingers across that smooth ivory cheek and tangle them in his curls. "Why would I be upset?"

Another deep breath. Another quicksilver flash of green irises from behind absurdly long lashes. Another tilt of his head. "I . . . You were . . . Yesterday you seemed so—" He sounds breathless, flustered, like he's about to have an anxiety attack from having to explain. "I thought you were-were going to tell me you—that you didn't want—" That delicate pink rises in his cheeks, rosy flames blooming on his skin, and he looks so uncertain, so lost and torn, but I can't for the life of me understand why.

And before I realize what I'm doing, I'm reaching out, putting a hand on his shoulder, intent on comforting him, calming him. Ignoring every rational voice in my head that tells me—no, _screams _at me—to move away. All I know is he looks scared again, that fear sparking in his emerald eyes, as though he's afraid to speak his mind, afraid of what I'll think. And I'm so fucking _sick_ of him being scared of me.

I don't expect to feel the crackle of magnetism, of pure energy that sizzles against my skin when I touch him. I don't expect to see his rainforest eyes, brilliant green flashing to my face, pearl teeth biting down hard on that raspberry-stained lip, tempting me. I don't expect to feel the myriad of emotions welling up inside me, choking me as they rise in my throat. I don't expect to feel myself moving toward him, sliding my hand down his arm to grip his wrist. And I don't expect to feel his cool, sweet-smelling breath fanning my face, or feel him shudder against my grip as I press my lips to his.

But then all I can do is feel him, drown in him, lose myself to his taste on my lips, some heavenly flavor I've never heard of, and he's so unbearably sweet, so intoxicating and addictive I can hardly stand it. It's so much, almost too much, but I can't let him go. Can't pull away from this moment, this wonderful heady feeling tingling across my skin. So instead I press closer, tangling my hand in his hair and using the other to trace back up his arm, cupping his cheek. I feel his cool skin heating mine, feel him breathe out and sigh into my mouth as his satin lips part. It's soft and warm and intense and perfect, and God, I want so much more but it's already so incredible, just feeling the silk of his mouth against mine, just carding my fingers through his burnished curls, inhaling the fragrance on his skin, tasting him.

And I don't care anymore if wanting him is wrong. I don't care anymore if everyone will hate me. I don't care anymore who I hurt. Because as long as I have him—as long as I can touch him and kiss him and keep him pressed against me like this—I don't think I could bring myself to care if the world ends.

"Edward," I sigh against his lips, twining my fingers around the hair at the nape of his neck as I urge him closer. He half-whimpers in response and I feel his hands clutching at my shoulders, pushing—

"Jacob, stop," I hear him gasp.

_Stop_. He wants me to stop. _Edward _wants me to stop. _Edward_ wants me to stop _kissing him_.

Oh my God.

I don't know how I end up with my back pressed to the wall opposite him. I don't know how Edward ends up crumpled on the floor by the bench, a shaking hand pressed to his mouth with tears pooling in those rainforest eyes. I don't know how I end up running across the yard, away from him and his silence ringing in my ears. I don't know how I get to my bike, only I know I didn't go through the house, because Esme would've stopped me, would've asked me what's wrong, would've asked why there's wetness brimming in my eyes.

All I know is that suddenly I'm hurtling down the Cullens' dirt drive, heart pounding and tears falling freely for the second time in ten years. And I'm trying not to think about the feel of his lips on mine, the sounds of his breathing muffled against my mouth, the taste of him, so addictive. But then, everything about Edward is addictive. I would happily kiss him forever, or touch him forever, or even breathe the same air as him forever, without a single complaint.

I want him. God, I want him.

But he doesn't want me.

I know he doesn't. Because he pushed me away.

And that, even though I should've expected it, hurts more than anything.

~oOo~

_A/N: Don't be mad at me. I'm the victim here. Pity me. Thanks to my pre-reader for her loves; you deserve soooooo many Cuban pool boys, m-dear. Many more than I can afford. Xp_

_I'll try and get out another chapter soon, but I've got tons of things to do this month, so no promises. Don't fret though! I'll update sooner or later. :D And I will—I WILL—reply to all my reviews. I'm soooooo sorry for getting so far behind; just know that I read each and every review, and I love them all. You guys are absolutely amazing! Cheers, loves!_

_Oh yes! I nearly forgot! I've made an awards site called The Twifestivals for slash fics with under 1k reviews, so go to thetwifestivals(dot)blogspot(dot)com and nominate your favorite Twislash. Nominations are closed on June 28 at noon!_

_Don't you think poor Jake deserves some comforting reviews to ease the pain? I do, so send him some love, darlings!_


	10. Locks

_Title: Magnetism_

_Author: buildmeapyramid_

_Fandom: Twilight Saga_

_Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes (and now I must add there's a good possibility of slightly-underage boys getting a bit hot and heavy under the sheets sooner or later, so watch out)_

_Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella_

_Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me._

_A/N: *peers out of hole in the ground* I'm sorry?_

_I know the horrid delay has probably made some of y'all hate me, and I'm sure I've lost some readers, but I'm back with a new laptop and lots of fresh mojo, and I'll leave the blubbering explanations for the end, so I won't keep you waiting anymore. Here is Chapter 10._

~oOo~

10. Locks

2 a.m.

I remember there was a time when I would wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of running water and hushed voices in the hall. Then I'd see a shadowed figure slip into my room, and my father's sad, dark eyes gazing at me as he kissed me on the forehead and told me to go back to sleep. When I asked him what was happening, he whispered that "Mommy had a little accident, that's all" as he tucked me in. And his warm hands brushing back my hair, his gentle, soothing words, would lull me back to sleep again.

Now, all I can hear is the muffled sigh of the wind through the trees and the rustle of the sheets as my chest rises and falls with each breath. Dad isn't home. He left around six with a six-pack and his jacket. So now it's just me, biting my lip and trying to keep my mind off the dream. My hands grip the sheets in an effort to ignore the pulse of heat in my cock, and my eyes are hazy with memories of his raspberry lips against my skin, his rainforest eyes flickering up to meet mine as he dragged hot, wet kisses down my front.

I gasp and clutch the sheets tighter as I remember—his crooked, shy smile as he leaned over me, brushing his fingers against my bare stomach and letting out a breathy moan as I pulled him down to me, fitting our bodies perfectly against each other.

And God, the _feel _of him, skin touching, caressing, colliding, lips tangled in kisses and hands sliding across damp, quivering flesh as we moved . . . I could taste him on my tongue, hear his ragged breaths and groans as he arched against me, see his jade eyes glitter with heat, smell the intoxicating mixture of sweat and sex and Edward that filled the air. And when I _felt_ him, hard and pulsing and completely unexpected against my groin as we grinded together, my hips bucked up and I gave in to the delirious pleasure that simmered through me, burning and dancing in my blood.

And then it was too much.

I muffle my groan against my shoulder, fighting my lust, fighting my _feelings_. I've already made a fucking fool out of myself, letting myself want him, letting myself _kiss _him. I refuse to jack off to that dream, to thoughts of _him. _There's something wrong about it, something deeper than simply the factor of him being a guy.

I don't understand, I don't know if I want to understand, and I'm not about to torment myself more than I already am by analyzing yesterday or my thoughts about him. I just want to go back to sleep, and not have those fucking dreams anymore.

But yesterday flickers between memories of last night. I can still taste him when I lick my lips, and I can still recall the feel of his silky hair between my fingers, the way his breath fanned against my face, sweet and cool.

My cock twitches, and I feel the heat of those memories down to my toes. I groan and turn, stuffing my face into the pillow and putting everything into resisting the tide of lust pulsing through me, suffocating me. And I pray for morning to come.

~oOo~

_Come on, Jake. Stitch your balls back on. Be a man._

I repeat this over and over to myself as I slip past Mr. Garrison into the classroom. My lips move as I silently recite the words and clench my hand around the strap of my backpack.

But I still freeze when I see him.

His eyes meet mine, and I feel like a pillar of sand hit with a gust of wind. Breath slips in a heavy torrent from my mouth, and my entire body fucking clenches and locks down, frozen and trapped by those mossy, beautiful, shimmering eyes. God, he's more perfect than he was yesterday. His hair, his skin, his eyes, his body, the way his rosy lips part and quiver as he stares at me and I stare back.

Memories flood my mind. Of him. Of us. Of that kiss and the pain that followed. Of everything in me that died as his hands pushed me away when I wanted nothing more than to be closer. I don't care anymore that Bella will explode if and when she finds out how I feel; I don't even care that wanting _Edward Cullen _makes me, for all intents and purposes, gay, as well as a complete fucking idiot.

I just . . . want him.

I gulp down fresh air, still trapped in Edward's eyes, and I feel his nearness down to my toes.

_More._

I take a step forward.

Watch him.

Another step.

He flinches.

I pause.

Take a breath.

And then I'm sliding into my seat, the closeness of his body sending a current of warmth crackling across my skin, racing through my blood like fire, like magnetism. What I wouldn't give just to touch him, just to feel a sliver of that smooth, cool skin against mine and revel in it.

His eyes burn, the faint gold flecks in the midst of the green flashing like gems caught in sunlight. I remember the way they glimmered with tears yesterday, and everything in me aches.

I swallow. Look away. Hear him breathe out softly. I wonder what that breath would feel like against my lips.

He's on his feet in an instant, the shrill groan of the chair sliding back making me cringe as my eyes flash up in surprise. But he's not looking at me; he's gathering his things. Putting them back in his bag.

I feel something, a fear that grips my heart and gnaws inside me, but I don't know what to do. Not here. Not with other people around, chattering and laughing and completely unaware that the hard-ass, threatening bully who terrorizes the school, kissed a dude. Kissed Edward. And that's a whole other level of scandal.

But he's leaving. He's running past the desk, past Mr. Garrison in the doorway, ignoring our teacher's confused voice calling him back. And I don't think I can let him go.

The memory of our kiss burns on my lips as I stand on shaky legs and grab my bag before walking out, past the teacher and down the hall, catching a glimpse of tousled bronze hair through the few dawdling people milling around. He's heading for the exit.

And I start to run.

People stop and stare as I do, and I feel eyes on me from every direction, but I have to reach him. I'm responsible for this, for hurting him, for whatever thoughts are going through his head. And I need to fix it. It doesn't make me gay to want to comfort him . . . right?

I duck past everyone, never slowing down as I follow that telltale bronze head as it leaves the building, and my heart pounds when I realize I might not reach him in time. So I run faster. Through the door and into the parking lot. There aren't as many people here—just a few slackers and one or two cars slugging around in search of a spot—and I can see him striding quickly toward that ridiculous Volvo he drives. He's leaving.

"Edward!" I yell, ignoring the fact that whoever hears that will probably look at me like I'm an alien.

But he keeps walking.

"Edward!" I call again, running even faster when he still refuses to acknowledge me.

His left hand is on the door, keys dangling from the right as he moves to step inside, when I reach him, gasping for breath. "Don't," I pant. He stops, freezes mid-movement, but he doesn't turn. "Edward, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

He's in the car in a second, and I stumble back into the Honda behind me as he backs out of the spot and speeds out of the parking lot, leaving me standing there wondering how the hell I'm supposed to fix this.

_Come on, Jake. Stitch your balls back on. Be a man. _The mantra echoes through my head, my heart pounding with adrenaline and fear, but I swallow hard and start running again, this time toward my bike. It's probably close to raining right now—the sky is a dark, angry gray—but I can't find it in me to care. I just know I need to talk to him, no matter what. If I have to sit my ass in a wet seat and get pneumonia to do that, then so be it.

A minute later I'm on Main Street, going way too fast but beyond caring. I can see Edward's Volvo up ahead, a flash of silver in the haze of the fresh rain now falling.

My heart thuds in my chest, and I know I should just turn around and go back to school, ignore the pull that draws me to him, forget all about these dreams and feelings and the _kiss _that changed everything. That _kiss _made it real, made the moments and longing _alive _with what I want but could never find the strength to ask for. That _fucking kiss _blurred the line between fantasy and reality, and I'm too addicted to Edward to let go now. Even if he tells me he's not interested, or that he wants me to leave him alone, I'll still want him, still _need _him, and still crave to simply breathe the same air as he does.

So I don't turn around.

I follow him out of town, rain pouring down and making me seriously regret not wearing a heavier jacket, until I'm trailing after him down the gravel path to his house. My hands are clenched on the handle bars and my throat clogs when I try to swallow. He reaches the driveway before I do, and he's out of the car in an instant, racing onto the porch and through the door, banging it shut behind him.

I'm shaking when I finally pull up under the same tree as always, propping it against the trunk and running after him, my entire body shaking.

The front door is still cracked open, the house quiet enough to make my feet on the stairs sound like thunder, and there's no way he doesn't know I'm here.

When I reach his bedroom door, it's locked, and I'm desperate. "Edward!" I beg. "Edward, please!"

Silence, the stillness of it broken only by the angry pattering of rain on the roof.

"Edward," I try again, "I just want to fu- . . . I just want to talk, please."

There's a noise from the other side, and my hand ends up pressed against the door, trying to get closer. "I'm sorry, Edward," I say. "I didn't mean to—" My eyes squeeze shut. "I just—" Words don't come, and I'm drowning in the silence, trying to find a way to make him talk, to make him understand what I don't understand myself.

I swear I hear the sound of soft crying, the kind of crying where you're trying not to be heard. "Jesus, Edward, I'm sorry," I plead. "I'm an idiot. Please don't—" My throat closes and I feel the panic start to set in. I have to fix this. I _have _to.

There's a small vibration in the door, and I swear I can feel the heat of him through the wood. My heart is pounding and I hold my breath, waiting.

And then he speaks.

"Please—I don't . . . Please don't-don't ask me to—" His voice catches on a barely audible sob, and I wish I could do something to erase the pain in his broken words, wishing that somehow I could want him and not be scared of what that means. Because he's still Edward. He's still the ex-boyfriend who broke my best friend's heart. Only now he's more. Now that I've dreamed about him, now that I've talked to him and seen him smile, now that I've _kissed_ him, I don't think I can go back to even trying to hate him. I don't want to. I just want to be there, on the other side of this door, holding his fucking hand if that's what he needs. I want to be his friend and I want to make him smile and I want to fucking kiss him again and again, until our lips are numb and our hearts are racing, and I don't want it to be wrong. It doesn't _feel_ wrong; it feels right. So fucking right, and I wonder why it's never felt this way with Bella—or any other girl for that matter. Because I'm not gay. I like tits and lip gloss and shiny hair and curves. But Edward's just so . . .

Christ.

Fuck it.

Fuck it all.

I want him.

I fucking want him.

And if that makes me gay, then fuck, bring on the rainbow flags, because I'm fucking sick of being confused.

"It's okay," I say, and I don't know if I'm telling myself, or Edward. "It's okay."

There's another noise, not a sob. It sounds more like a sigh.

"Edward . . ." I hesitate for a moment before pushing on. "Edward, can I-can I come in? Please?"

There's an eternity crammed into the next few seconds, and I wonder if I've gone too far. But there's no taking it back now. So I wait.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

And then I hear the lock click open.

_A/N: Okay, so here's what went down this past year. I was smack dab in the middle of doing the final count for The Twifestivals, and the second I get up to make myself a sandwich, what does my laptop do?It dies. Naturally, I hadn't had any of my fic stuff backed up properly, so basically my laptop sat on my kitchen table with all my documents stuck inside it until I could afford to buy a new one. But finally, after an agonizing five months without being able to write fic, I was able to get my lovely new Samsung 300e5a (okay, too much techie, I'm gonna stop now) and transfer everything over. All that's left is to figure out how the hell I'm gonna buy Microsoft all over again, because I don't have the license to Microsoft on my old laptop. But until then, I'm using the trial version, so all's well._

_Anyway, that's the much-shortened version of my tragic tale of woe, so I hope you all aren't TOO angry with me. *puppy eyes*_

_Next chapter is already in progress, so it should be long in coming. Also, sorry about the rather short chapter length, but I really liked where it ended, so . . . *shrugs*_


	11. Revelations

_Title: Magnetism_

_Author: buildmeapyramid_

_Fandom: Twilight Saga_

_Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes (and now I must add there's a good possibility of slightly-underage boys getting a bit hot and heavy under the sheets sooner or later, so watch out)_

_Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella_

_Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me._

_A/N: Yeah, um, so I am a horrible person. *cowers* Please don't hate me._

_So many thanks to Danni for this chapter. She did a lot towards actually getting me to write it, as my mojo was pretty much on vacation, so all the credit goes to her for this one. Love you bb!_

~oOo~

11. Revelations

The house is silent, and the rain has slowed to a steady drizzle that taps insistently against the window. I'm sitting on the sofa lounge, heart beating fast as a drum, holding my breath. Waiting.

Edward is cross-legged on his bed, hands twisting and untwisting nervously, and the look on his face makes me wonder if he really does want me to leave, if I'm just being a pushy asshole who can't take "no" for an answer. He's made it pretty fucking clear I overstepped his boundaries yesterday; hell, I think I overstepped _my _boundaries. But fuck, he looked so fucking . . . just-just so fucking _beautiful_, and he was _right there_, and then I was kissing him and he tasted so fucking _good_. I didn't care that he was a guy, that he was Bella's ex—that he was Edward fucking Cullen, the person I've loved to hate for so long.

He wasn't Edward Cullen then. He was soft red lips and these eyes that stared into my soul; he was quiet, gentle words and the whisper of rain in the trees. He was the first person to make me want to change; he was the first person I had really _hugged _in years.

I feel cold sitting here, trying to hold in every apology, every stupid excuse that I know won't change things.

I kissed him.

He pushed me away.

And that's that.

I'd be way fucking better off if I just left well enough alone, but Jesus Christ, I don't think I can now. Especially not when he finally opens his mouth and whispers, "I'm sorry." He sounds so fucking scared.

And I really don't know where it comes from, but suddenly I'm growling and standing up and fisting my hands and trying so fucking _hard _to stay calm, but I can't stand to see him like this. Looking at me like I'm the fucking devil himself. It's killing me. "Don't say that," I snarl. "Don't fucking—"

He hangs his head, and his shoulders are hunched and he looks like he's about to throw up. And I've done it again, done the exact opposite of what I wanted to. Why can't I just . . . fucking get it right for once?

I sigh. "It's my fault," I tell him.

His moss-green eyes look up at me, and he looks nothing short of shocked. "What?" he whispers. "What-what do you mean?"

I sit back down, wishing I could just say fuck it and kiss him again until he quit being scared of me, until I could make him see I'm not going to hurt him, no matter what stupid shit I do. But I don't think I could bear it a second time to have him push me away again. So I stay where I am, and I talk instead.

"I didn't mean to . . ." I say, and I don't look up. If I do, I'll see those fucking endless eyes, and I really won't be able to help myself. I'm already shaking just knowing that he's watching me, that his eyes are on me as I speak. "I don't know what happened, but I just . . . couldn't stop myself." My breathing sounds too loud.

"But—"

I ignore his interruption, plowing ahead with my eyes squeezed shut. "I never wanted to know you better, or go to your house, or even _like _you at all. I always hated how perfect you are, how much Bella loved you, how much better you are than I am." I take a breath, the memory of his mossy green eyes and soft lips burning across my mind. _Tell him. _"But then I really _met _you. Your family. I found out that it wasn't an act, that you really are as good and kind as you seem. You really are a good person."

"I'm not—"

"You are!" Why can't he see it? Why can't he fucking _see _what he does to me? "It's no wonder everyone loves you! You're the best guy I've ever met, and even though I've treated you like complete shit, you still smiled at me, you still hugged me . . . you still said we could be friends."

There's something pressing against my chest, pushing and hurting. Tears burn in my eyes, but I'm not going to let them fall. Not now.

It takes him what feels like forever to respond. "I am your friend," I hear him whisper. It feels like there's ice frosting my veins, coating my skin, as I wait with my forehead pressed against my fisted hands. "I-I am your friend but . . ." I hold my breath, feeling hollow, yet at the same time brimming with nameless emotions. Don't say it, I plead silently. Please don't say it. "But nothing more."

I swallow, something falling inside me even though I think I knew it was coming. I should be relieved. But it's not relief that makes me feel sick, like I've closed a door behind me that can never be opened again.

~oOo~

I don't know how long we sit, avoiding each other's eyes. There is just broken silence wrapped in the dull whisper of rain outside and our shallow breathing.

I want to take it back. I wish I'd never kissed him. Not like that. I wish I'd done something differently, something to make him pull me closer instead of push me away. But it's too late. He doesn't want me. And that hurts the most.

So I sit there, eyes down, halfway broken because I fucked it all up. Again.

I feel rather than hear him move, and I look up to find him watching me, wary. "What?" I say.

"Are you . . . angry?" he whispers.

I straighten. "Angry? Why—"

"I'm sorry," he blurts out. "I just—"

He doesn't finish.

"Edward?" I lean forward. "Just what?"

He turns his head, and I feel a flicker of hope. "It's nothing," he says.

He's lying.

"Edward—"

"Jacob." The sound of my name makes something lurch inside me, and I hold my breath as rainforest eyes gaze at me, strange things, wars, fear, confusion, fill their depths. We're separated by just a few feet of space, but the air between us is thick and hazy and I feel that pull again. That magnetism.

"Edward," I whisper. Those eyes flicker with a new emotion, something startling, something that makes my toes curl inside my shoes. The question I'm about to ask makes me tremble, makes my hands cold and shaky, makes my heart skitter. But his eyes make me wonder, make me _hope_, that maybe, there's a small chance he could want me the way I want him. "Edward," I say again, "did you want me to kiss you?"

For a moment, it's still. For a moment, even the rush of the rain seems to die away, and dust motes catch in the gray light, and I see his face, the way his lips part red and sweet, the way his eyes go wide and dark, the way his cheeks _flush _with color.

And I know.

I was right.

_A/N: I know, I'm a bitch. I apologize, and I won't pull any lame excuses out of my ass. Just know that I am going to try and update in a somewhat timely fashion. I have not forgotten this story, and Jake shall eventually quit sacking my plotlines, and our boys shall eventually have less angsty times, but only once in a while, because let's face it, these two just can't seem to figure shit out and be happy._

_Sorry again, and thank you so much if you're still reading. *huggles*_


	12. Hope

_Title: Magnetism_

_Author: buildmeapyramid_

_Fandom: Twilight Saga_

_Rating: M, for crude humor, language, slash pairings, and mature themes (and now I must add there's a good possibility of slightly-underage boys getting a bit hot and heavy under the sheets sooner or later, so watch out)_

_Pairing: Edward/Jacob, very slight Edward/Bella and Jacob/Bella_

_Disclaimer: The Twilight Saga does not belong to me; it belongs to Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement intended. So please don't sue me._

_A/N: So, I think this whole shorter chapters things is going to stick. One, because it's a bit more manageable to work in small doses. Two, because Jake really loves his dramatic endings. What can I do, he's in charge apparently. *grumbles* Anyway, aren't you proud of me? It's so NOT BEEN ALMOST A YEAR between updates this time yayyyyy. I give myself cookies for that. xD_

_Also, I cried while writing this chapter. Like, a LOT. It was a serious concern for a little while that I would drown myself and my laptop in my own tears. Because, well, EDWARD and . . . you'll see._

_Also also, thank you so much for your lovely, encouraging reviews. I have the best readers in the universe; not one of you got out your pitchforks about updating. *hugs you all* You keep me writing, loves._

~oOo~

12. Hope

"Jacob," he breathes, and I can _see _it, see the walls coming up around him, see the way he draws up to deny it. But I can also see the truth, see the flare of want in moss-green eyes and the bloom of red on too-pale cheeks. He wants me. I can see it.

"Why did you push me away, Edward?" I ask, and my voice breaks at the end, heart in my throat at the thought of rejection. At the thought that he won't give me a chance, won't let me do whatever it takes to make him happy. I want him, I want _this_, and by God, I _know _he does too.

His shoulders draw up, expression torn, and I hate myself for the way his eyes avoid mine, hands clenched in the sheets beneath him. He looks _afraid_.

"Did I do something wrong?" I ask, pained because I know I must have done something. I always do.

"Jacob," he says again, and he starts to shake his head, but draws in a breath sharply and goes still.

"Edward, please," I rasp. "Tell me. Are you angry at me? Are you scared of me?" I choke on the last sentence.

His eyes flash up, a deep burn of green that sets off sparks inside me, and he looks _surprised. _"No!" he exclaims, voice deep and soft as the rush of rain outside. "I'm not—no, Jacob, I'm not _scared _of you." He pauses, and his lips tremble slightly, a slight movement that I wouldn't have caught if I weren't watching him so intently. And he is scared, I can see it, but if it's not because of me, I don't know why.

And then I almost say fuck it.

I almost get up and go to him.

Pull him into my arms and do my best to comfort him.

Because he covers his mouth with a shaking hand, and he looks _broken_ as he says, "I'm scared of myself."

My throat feels choked, and the silence seems to roar in my ears. "What?" My voice sounds like it's coming from far away, and everything in my line of vision is out of focus, everything except him. His face, the tears caught on long, spiky lashes, the shaking shoulders hunched forward, the too-pale hand pressed against his mouth to smother a quiet sob.

No.

Forget almost.

Edward is crying.

Edward is _crying._

I'm on my feet in a second, and he's in my arms in the next, and he's _shaking _like a _leaf_, sinking into me, hands clinging to my shirt, my shoulders, my back. He holds onto me like a drowning man holds onto a float, and he cries and cries and cries.

Everything in me _breaks _at the feel of him, pressing tight against me, clutching me so tight I can barely breathe. And even though his body is fit, strong, tall, he feels small in my arms, fragile, breakable. He buries his face in my shoulder and he fists his hands in my shirt, holds on and doesn't let go, not for a long time.

But I don't mind.

I'm terrified, yes. Of what this means. Of what to do after this. Of what will happen when he pushes me away again, for reasons that I still don't understand.

But right now, I ignore my fears.

I hold him tighter, whisper soothing words that probably don't make any sense.

I stand there and try to be an anchor, something to cling to.

I let him cry.

~oOo~

"Is this okay?"

His fingers curl gently over my shoulder, and I feel him nod against my chest after a moment. The tears have long since dried, leaving behind a drained, quiet Edward in my arms as we lay on his bed. He still hasn't spoken, and his head is tucked into the crook of my neck so I can't see his face.

It has to be early afternoon at least. We've been lying here for hours, pressed close to each other, but we haven't said a word.

I wonder what happens next.

I wonder if this means that I can hope again, that there's a chance he could feel the way I feel.

I think he does. I think he wants this just as much as I do. And I think that, for some reason,that scares him more than anything.

He trembles against me as I rub a hand across his shoulders, and I feel his cool fingers edge up, the tips brushing the skin just above the collar of my shirt. His breath catches and he pulls his hand away, moving it back to my shoulder where it was before and burying his face deeper into my neck.

On one side, it feels amazing. Having him this close, in my arms, knees bumping against mine, warm breath fanning against my throat and tying my stomach in knots.

But I know something isn't right. I know being so close to me is strange to him—hell, it's strange to me too. And I know that laying here doing . . . whatever the hell this is, _cuddling _or whatever, isn't going to fix anything.

With that thought in mind, I use every ounce of willpower I have and move to pull away. Only to feel hands pulling me back, tugging at my shoulders to bring me back. I'm too surprised to do anything other than what he seems to be telling me to do, so I obediently pull him back into my arms, feeling his breath hot and uneven against my neck.

"Edward," I say, "I—"

"Please," he gasps, voice faint, rasping. His fingers curl into my chest, making my whole body clench with the thought that _Edward _is right here, pressed up against me, letting me _hold _him.

I wait for him to say something, something to help me understand what's going on in his head, but he stays silent. "Edward," I try again, "what is it?"

His breath catches in his throat and he tenses against me, tucks his head deeper into the crook of my neck. "I shouldn't be doing this," he finally whispers, voice cracking.

I turn just slightly, and a soft lock of bronze hair brushes my cheek. "Why, Edward?" I ask. "What's wrong with this?" The words sound choked.

I can feel the way he tightens up, stiffens in my arms, and when I try to soothe him, running a hand down his back, he jolts—a tiny movement, but I feel it and it makes an ache lace through me like poison.

"Edward?"

He breathes in shakily. "I need . . . I need time." He draws away slightly, just far enough to look up so I can see his face. He looks tired, paler than usual, but his eyes are soft, pleading.

I nod. "Okay," I say. I press my lips to his forehead and he sighs, sinking back into me as I tighten my arms around him with something like joy blooming in my chest.

I'll give him all the time he needs.

_A/N: Okay, so I feel y'all should know real quick. I originally had a pretty solid plan for this story when I started it; the plan was sacked. I can name fingers and point names. *coughJakecough* So I'm sort of winging it now. I write it as they tell it, and sometimes what they tell is COMPLETELY TRAUMATIZING AND NOT OKAY OMG . . . But I digress. I meant to just let you know that I'm not sure how updates will be because of the way this story seems to be unfolding. Plus, Jake is an asshole, which doesn't help. I blame it all on him._

_Okay, I'm done babbling. Leave a review or go on your merry way; however, reviews DO get you Edward snuggles. 3_


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